"No. It isn't the work that's dreadful."
"Then perhaps it's the worry? And I'm afraid I'm responsible for that."
He started, shaken out of his admirable self-possession by that glaring personality. "How could you be?"
"By insisting on engaging you as I did. From what you told me it's very evident that you had something on your mind, and that the work has been very dreadful, very difficult."
"I have something on my mind and—it has been difficult—all the same—"
"I wouldn't have pressed you if I had really known. I'm very sorry. Is it too late? Would it be any good if I released you now?"
If she released him!
"Miss Harden, you are most awfully good to me."
"Would that help you?"
He looked at her. Over her face there ran again that little ripple of thought and sympathy, like shadow and flame. One fear was removed from him. Whatever happened Miss Harden would never misunderstand him. At the same time he realized that any prospect, however calamitous, would be more endurable than the course she now proposed.