But before he had finished speaking, her face changed.  A light of sudden understanding shone in her eyes; her lips softened to a smile of exquisite gentleness.

‘The subject never did occur to me,’ she answered.  ’How should it?  A friend is a friend.’

It was not strictly true, but in the strength of her emotion she could forget all that contradicted it.

‘A friend—­yes.’

Godwin began with the same note of bluntness.  But of a sudden he felt the influence of Sidwell’s smile.  His voice sank into a murmur, his heart leapt, a thrill went through his veins.

‘I wish to be something more than a friend.’

He felt that it was bald, inadequate.  Yet the words had come of their own accord, on an impulse of unimpaired sincerity.  Sidwell’s head was bent.

‘That is why I can’t take simple things for granted,’ he continued, his gaze fixed upon her.  ’If I thought of nothing but friendship, it would seem rational enough that you should accept me for what I am —­a man of education, talking your own language.  Because I have dared to hope something more, I suffer from the thought that I was not born into your world, and that you must be always remembering this difference.’

‘Do you think me so far behind the age?’ asked Sidwell, trying to laugh.

’Classes are getting mixed, confused.  Yes, but we are so conscious of the process that we talk of class distinctions more than of anything else,—­talk and think of them incessantly.  You have never heard me make a profession of Radicalism; I am decidedly behind the age.  Be what I may—­and I have spiritual pride more than enough—­the fact that I have relatives in the lower, even the lowest, social class must necessarily affect the whole course of my life.  A certain kind of man declares himself proud of such an origin —­and most often lies.  Or one may be driven by it into rebellion against social privilege.  To me, my origin is simply a grave misfortune, to be accepted and, if possible, overcome.  Does that sound mean-spirited?  I can’t help it; I want you to know me.’

‘I believe I know you very well,’ Sidwell replied.

The consciousness that she was deceived checked the words which were rising to his lips.  Again he saw himself in a pitiful light, and this self-contempt reflected upon Sidwell.  He could not doubt that she was yielding to him; her attitude and her voice declared it; but what was the value of love won by imposture?  Why had she not intelligence enough to see through his hypocrisy, which at times was so thin a veil?  How defective must her sympathy be!

‘Yet you have seen very little of me,’ he said, smiling.

There was a short silence; then he exclaimed in a voice of emotion: