“Is it playing fair—­to keep you in ignorance like that?” he demanded.

Sara laughed suddenly.

“Perhaps not.  But somehow I don’t mind.  I am sure he must have a good reason—­or else”—­with a flash of humour—­“some silly man’s reason that won’t be any obstacle at all!”

“Supposing”—­Tim bent over her, his face rather white—­“supposing you find—­later on—­that there is some real obstacle—­that he can’t marry you, would you come to me—­then, Sara?”

She shook her head.

“No, Tim, not now.  Don’t you see, now that I know he cares for me—­everything is altered.  I’m not free, now.  In a way, I belong to him.  Oh!  How can I explain?  Even though we may never marry, there is a faithfulness of the spirit, Tim.  It’s—­it’s the biggest part of love, really——­”

She broke off, and presently she felt Tim’s hands on her shoulders.

“I think I understand, dear,” he said gently.  “It’s just what I should expect of you.  It means the end of everything—­everything that matters for me.  But—­somehow—­I would not have you otherwise.”

He did not stay very long after that.  They talked together a little, promising each other that their friendship should still remain unbroken and unspoilt.

“For,” as Tim said, “if I cannot have the best that the world can give—­your love, Sara, I need not lose the second best—­which is your friendship.”

And Sara, watching him from the window as he strode away down the little tiled path, wondered why love comes so often bearing roses in one hand and a sharp goad in the other.

CHAPTER XXI

THE PITILESS ALTAR

Elisabeth was pacing restlessly up and down the broad, flagged terrace at Barrow, impatiently awaiting Tim’s return from Monkshaven.

She knew his errand there.  He had scarcely needed to tell her the contents of Sara’s letter, so swiftly had she summed up the immediate connection between the glimpse she had caught of Sara’s handwriting and the shadow on the beloved face.

She moved eagerly to meet him as she heard the soft purr of the motor coming up the drive.

“Well?” she queried, slipping her arm through his and drawing him towards the terrace.

Tim looked at her with troubled eyes.  He could guess so exactly what her attitude would be, and he was not going to allow even Elisabeth to say unkind things about the woman he loved.  If he could prevent it, she should not think them.

Very gently, and with infinite tact, he told her the result of his interview with Sara, concealing so far as might be his own incalculable hurt.

To his relief, his mother accepted the facts with unexpected tolerance.  He could not see her expression, since her eyes veiled themselves with down-dropped lids, but she spoke quite quietly and as though trying to be fair in her judgment.  There was no outward sign by which her son might guess the seething torrent of anger and resentment which had been aroused within her.