"It is for you to say," she answered quietly. "You know better than I. If you have work in your brain and you are weary of other things—well, au revoir, and good luck to you. Only you will come and see me now and then, and tell me how you are getting on, for I shall be a little lonely just at first."
She looked at him with eyes a trifle dim, and Douglas felt his heart beat thickly, and the memory of Rice's passionate words seemed suddenly weak.
"I shall come and see you always," he said, "as often as you would have me come. You know that."
She shook her head as though but half convinced. Then she rose to her feet.
"There is just one thing I should like to ask you," she said. "This new resolution of yours—did you come by it alone, or has any one been advising you?"
Douglas hesitated.
"I have been talking to a man," he admitted, "who certainly seemed to think that I was neglecting my work."
"Will you tell me who it was?"
Douglas looked into her face and became suddenly grave. The eyes were narrower and brighter, a glint of white teeth showed through the momentarily parted lips. A tiny spot of colour burned in her cheeks—something of the wild animal seemed suddenly to have leaped up in her. Yet how beautiful she was!
"I cannot do that," he faltered.