"No!" she replied meditatively, striving to be conscious of her own feelings, "I do not think that I am unhappy . . . only anxious . . . and . . . a little lonely: that is all. . . . Sir Marmaduke is oft away: when he is at home, I scarce ever see him, and he but rarely speaks to me . . . and methinks there is but scant sympathy 'twixt Mistress de Chavasse and me, though she is kind at times in her way."
Then she turned her eyes, bright with unshed tears, down again to him.
"But all seems right again!" she said with a sweet, sad smile, "now that you have come back, my dear . . . dear friend!"
"God bless you for these words!"
"I grieved terribly when I heard . . . about you . . . at first . . ." she said almost gaily now, "yet somehow I could not believe it all . . . and now. . . ."
"Yes? . . . and now?" he asked.
"Now I believe in you," she replied simply. "I believe that you care for me, and that you are my friend."
"Your friend, indeed, for I would give my life for you."
Once more he stooped, but now he kissed her hand. He was her friend, and had the right to do this. He had gradually mastered his emotion, his sense of wrong, and with that exquisite selflessness which real love alone can kindle in a human heart, he had succeeded in putting aside all thought of his own great misery, his helplessness and the hopelessness of his position, and remembered only that she looked fragile, a little older, sadder, and had need of his help.
"And now, sweet lady," he said, forcing himself to speak calmly of that which always set his heart and senses into a turmoil of passionate jealousy, "will you tell me something about him."