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She received this abrupt declaration in a way even stranger than the manner of its making: she dropped her face on her hands and he saw that for a moment she wept.

It was for a moment only, however; for when he leaned nearer and drew down her hands with a gesture less passionate than grave, she turned on him a face softened but not disfigured by emotion, and he said to himself, somewhat cruelly, that even her weeping was an art.

The reflection steadied his voice as he asked, between pity and irony: “Isn’t it natural that I should try to belittle all the things I can’t offer you?”

Her face brightened at this, but she drew her hand away, not with a gesture of coquetry, but as though renouncing something to which she had no claim.

“But you belittle me, don’t you,” she returned gently, “in being so sure they are the only things I care for?”

Selden felt an inner start; but it was only the last quiver of his egoism. Almost at once he answered quite simply: “But you do care for them, don’t you? And no wishing of mine can alter that.”

He had so completely ceased to consider how far this might carry him, that he had a distinct sense of disappointment when she turned on him a face sparkling with derision.

“Ah,” she cried, “for all your fine phrases you’re really as great a coward as I am, for you wouldn’t have made one of them if you hadn’t been so sure of my answer.”

The shock of this retort had the effect of crystallizing Selden’s wavering intentions.

“I am not so sure of your answer,” he said quietly. “And I do you the justice to believe that you are not either.”

It was her turn to look at him with surprise; and after a moment—“ Do you want to marry me?” she asked.

He broke into a laugh. “No, I don’t want to—but perhaps I should if you did!”

“That’s what I told you—you’re so sure of me that you can amuse yourself with experiments.” She drew back the hand he had regained, and sat looking down on him sadly.

“I am not making experiments,” he returned. “Or if I am, it is not on you but on myself I don’t know what effect they are going to have on me—but if marrying you is one of them, I will take the risk.”

She smiled faintly. “It would be a great risk, certainly—I have never concealed from you how great.”

“Ah, it’s you who are the coward!” he exclaimed.

She had risen, and he stood facing her with his eyes on hers. The soft isolation of the falling day enveloped them: they seemed lifted into a finer air. All the exquisite influences of the hour trembled in their veins, and drew them to each other as the loosened leaves were drawn to the earth.

“It’s you who are the coward,” he repeated, catching her hands in his.

She leaned on him for a moment, as if with a drop of tired wings: he felt as though her heart were beating rather with the stress of a long flight than the thrill of new distances. Then, drawing back with a little smile of warning—“I shall look hideous in dowdy clothes; but I can trim my own hats,” she declared.

They stood silent for a while after this, smiling at each other like adventurous children who have climbed to a forbidden height from which they discover a new world. The actual world at their feet was veiling itself in dimness, and across the valley a clear moon rose in the denser blue.

Suddenly they heard a remote sound, like the hum of a giant insect, and following the high-road, which wound whiter through the surrounding twilight, a black object rushed across their vision.

Lily started from her attitude of absorption; her smile faded and she began to move toward the lane.

“I had no idea it was so late. We shall not be back till after dark,” she said, almost impatiently.

Selden was looking at her with surprise: it took him a moment to regain his usual view of her; then he said, with an uncontrollable note of dryness: “That was not one of our party; the motor was going the other way.”

“I know—I know—” She paused, and he saw her redden through the twilight. “But I told them I was not well—that I should not go out. Let us go down!” she murmured.

Selden continued to look at