“I heard you had just been in to see Uncle George, Kate, and I tried to overtake you.”

Not much:  nothing in fact.  Playwriters tell us that the dramatic situation is the thing, and that the spoken word is as unimportant to the play as the foot-lights—­except as a means of illuminating the situation.

“Yes—­I have just left him, Harry.  Uncle George looks very badly—­don’t you think so?  Is there anything very serious the matter?  I sent Ben to Dr. Teackle’s, but he was not in his office.”

He had moved up a chair and sat devouring every vibration of her lips, every glance of her wondrous eyes—­all the little movements of her beautiful body—­her dress—­the way the stray strands of hair had escaped to her shoulders.  His Kate!—­and yet he dare not touch her!

“No, he is not ill.  He took a severe cold and only needs rest and a little care.  I am glad you went and—­” then the pent-up flood broke loose.  “Are you glad to see me, Kate?”

“I am always glad to see you, Harry—­and you look so well.  It has been nearly three years, hasn’t it?” Her calmness was maddening; she spoke as if she was reciting a part in which she had no personal interest.

“I don’t know—­I haven’t counted—­not that way.  I have lain awake too many nights and suffered too much to count by years.  I count by—­”

She raised her hand in protest:  “Don’t Harry—­please don’t.  All the suffering has not been yours!” The impersonal tone was gone—­there was a note of agony in her voice.

His manner softened:  “Don’t think I blame you, Kate.  I love you too much to blame you—­you did right.  The suffering has only done me good—­I am a different man from the one you once knew.  I see life with a wider vision.  I know what it is to be hungry; I know, too, what it is to earn the bread that has kept me alive.  I came home to look after Uncle George.  When I go back I want to take him with me.  I won’t count the years nor all the suffering I have gone through if I can pay him back what I owe him.  He stood by me when everybody else deserted me.”

She winced a little at the thrust, as if he had touched some sore spot, sending a shiver of pain through her frame, but she did not defend herself.

“You mustn’t take him away, Harry—­leave Uncle George to me,” not as if she demanded it—­more as if she was stating a fact.

“Why not?  He will be another man out in Brazil—­and he can live there like a gentleman on what he will have left—­so Pawson thinks.”

“Because I love him dearly—­and when he is gone I have nobody left,” she answered in a hopeless tone.

Harry hesitated, then he asked:  “And so what Uncle George told me about Mr. Willits is true?”

Kate looked at him furtively—­as if afraid to read his thoughts and for reply bowed her head in assent.

“Didn’t he love you enough?” There was a certain reproach in his tone, as if no one could love this woman enough to satisfy her.