"Mr. Alick Gell to see you, sir."
Gell came in with a gloomy and half-shamefaced look. His tall figure was bent, his fair hair was disordered, and his voice trembled as he said,
"Can't we take a walk in the wood, old fellow? I have something to say."
"I don't know how to tell you," he began. They were crossing the lawn towards the plantation. "Its about Bessie."
"Bessie?"
"I .... I'm madly in love with her."
Stowell stopped and looked without speaking into Gell's twitching face.
"I knew you wouldn't be able to believe it, but don't look at me like that."
"Tell me," said Stowell.
And then, stammering and trembling, Gell told his story. He didn't know how it began. Perhaps it was pity. He had been sorry for the girl, over there in that lonely place, so he went down at first just to cheer her up. Then he had found himself going frequently, buying her presents and taking her out for walks. When he had realised how things were he had tried to pull up, but it was too late. He had struggled to be loyal—to strengthen himself by talking of Stowell—praising him to the girl, excusing him for not coming to see her—but it was useless. His pity had developed into love, and before he had known what he was doing Bessie was in his arms. At the next instant he had felt like a traitor. He was frantically happy and yet he wanted to kill himself.