It seemed ever so late in the night when Philip came upstairs. He made a scarcely perceptible noise, but she was alert. “Phil dear!” she cried. “Are you there? Phil!”

He came softly out of the shadows, stood aloof¹ for a moment, black, mysterious and silent against the blue night, and then was at the bedside. “I hoped you were asleep,” he said.

She clicked on her shaded light and the two regarded each other in a sorrowful scrutiny², perplexed³ with themselves and life.

“Cynthia,” he whispered. “Cynthia my darling; can you forgive?”

“Perhaps,” she panted and paused. “Perhaps there is nothing to forgive.”

“But ——?”

“Nothing that matters.”

“She’s cleared out.”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t trouble about her. . . . You I think of.”

“I’ve been such a beast.”

“No. It happened. It had to happen. Something had to happen. You couldn’t help yourself. You’ve nothing to do here. You’ve been a prisoner here, waiting on me.”

“Oh! don’t say that. I meant to be so dear to you — my dear. But there’s something rotten in me.”

“No, no. Rotten! Dear, Phil dear, you’re not even ripe. But I’ve let you stay here. . . . ” She put out her hand and he sat himself on the bed beside her. He kissed her. “My dear,” he said. “Dear! Dear!”

“Listen,” she said and kept her hand upon him. She whispered. Both spoke⁴ in whispers. “Go to England, dear one. Things are happening there. Trouble and muddle⁵. Men — men ought to work. You — you ought to find out. You ought to understand. You so rich and — responsible. Things have to be done. I can stay here. . . . ”

“You banish⁶ me?”

“No. This is

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