He met her eyes with a sudden mastery which made her flinch in spite of herself. "No," he said, "I've only a make-believe at present. Not very satisfying of course; but better than nothing. There is always the hope that she may some day turn into the real thing to comfort me."
His words went into silence. Sylvia's head was bent.
After a moment he leaned a little towards her, and spoke almost in a whisper. "I feel as if I have caught a very rare, shy bird," he said. "I'm trying to teach it to trust me, but it takes a mighty lot of time and patience. Do you think I shall ever succeed, Sylvia? Do you think it will ever come and nestle against my heart?"
Again his words went into silence. The girl's eyes were fixed upon the stretch of sandy veldt below her and that which it held.
Silently the man watched her, his keen eyes very steady, very determined.
She lifted her own at last, and met them with brave directness. "You know, partner," she said, "it isn't very fair of you to ask me such a thing as that. You can't have—everything."
"All right," said Burke, and felt in his pocket for his pipe.
"Consider it unsaid!"
His abrupt acceptance of her remonstrance was curiously disconcerting. The mastery of his look had led her to expect something different. She watched him dumbly as he filled his pipe with quiet precision.
Finally, as he looked at her again, she spoke. "I don't want to seem over-critical—ungrateful, but—" her breath came quickly—"though you have been so awfully good to me, I can't help feeling—that you might have done more for Guy, if—if you had been kinder when he went wrong. And—" her eyes filled with sudden tears—"that thought spoils—just everything."
"I see," said Burke, and though his lips were grim his voice was wholly free from harshness. "Mrs. Merston told you all about it, did she?"