"Sydney—will you take me to Switzerland?"
"Certainly." Was that all? "When shall we go?"
"When can you leave London?"
"To-morrow. Any time."
"You really would give up all your engagements, all your prospects, for me?"
"Willingly, Nan."
"I begin to believe," she said, softly, "that you do care for me—a little."
"Nan! Oh, Nan, have you doubted it?"
Her hand stole gently into his; she drew him down beside her.
"Dear Sydney, come, here. Put your arm right round me—so. Now I can speak. I want to tell you something—many things. It is Lettice that has made me think I ought to say all this. Do you know, I have felt for a long, long time as if you had killed me—killed the best part of me, I mean—the soul that loved you, the belief in all that was good and true. That is why I have been so miserable. I did not know how to bear it. I thought that I did not love you; but I have loved you all the time; and now—now——"