Waymark often asked himself whether Maud’s was a passionless nature, or whether it was possible that her reserve had the same origin as his own.  The latter he felt to be unlikely; sometimes there was a pressure of her hands as their lips just touched, the indication, he believed, of feeling held in restraint for uncertain reasons.  She welcomed him, too, with a look which he in vain endeavoured to respond to—­a look of sudden relief from weariness, of gentle illumination; it smote him like a reproach.  When the summer had set in, he was glad to change the still room for the open air; they walked frequently about Regent’s Park, and lingered till after sunset.

One evening, when it was dull and threatened rain, they returned to the house sooner than usual.  Waymark would have taken his leave at the door, as he ordinarily did, but Maud begged him to enter, if only for a few minutes.  It was not quite nine o’clock, and Mrs. Enderby was from home.

He seated himself, but Maud remained standing irresolutely.  Waymark glanced at her from under his eyebrows.  He did not find it easy to speak; they had both been silent since they left the park, with the exception of the few words exchanged at the door.

“Will you let me sit here?” Maud asked suddenly, pushing a footstool near to his chair, and kneeling upon it.

He smiled and nodded.

“When will they begin the printing?” she asked, referring to his book, which was now in the hands of the publisher who had undertaken it.

“Not for some months.  It can’t come out till the winter season.”

“If it should succeed, it will make a great difference in your position, won’t it?”

“It might,” he replied, looking away.

She sat with her eyes fixed on the ground.  She wished to continue, but something stayed her.

“I don’t much count upon it,” Waymark said, when he could no longer endure the silence.  “We mustn’t base any hopes on that.”

He rose; the need of changing his attitude seemed imperative.

“Must you go?” Maud asked, looking up at him with eyes which spoke all that her voice failed to utter.

He moved his head affirmatively, and held out his hand to raise her.  She obeyed his summons, and stood up before him; her eyes had fixed themselves upon his; he could not avoid their strange gaze.

“Good-bye,” he said.

Her free hand rose to his shoulder, upon which it scarcely rested.  He could not escape her eyes, though to meet them tortured him.  Her lips were moving, but he could distinguish no syllable; they moved again, and he could just gather the sense of her whisper.

“Do you love me?”

An immense pity thrilled through him.  He put his arm about her, held her closely, and pressed his lips against her cheek.  She reddened, and hid her face against him.  Waymark touched her hair caressingly, then freed his other hand, and went from the room.