He seated himself again in the chair, and put his hand
through her arm to keep her where she lightly rested
beside him. "Will you tell me," he said, with a kind
of sombre gentleness, "what the word is that you would
have used then? I know you wouldn't--couldn't--have
called me 'nice.' What would you have called me?"
She paused in silence for a little, then slipped from
the chair and stood erect, still leaving her wrist within
the restraining curve of his fingers. "I suppose,"
she said, musingly--"I suppose I should have said
'powerful' or 'strong.'" Then she released her arm,
and in turn moved to the parapet.
"And I am weak now--I am 'nice,'" he reflected, mechanically.
In the profile he saw, as she looked away at the vast
distant horizon, there was something pensive, even sad.
She did not speak at once, and as he gazed at her more
narrowly it seemed as if her lips were quivering.
A new sense of her great beauty came to him--and with it
a hint that for the instant at least her guard was down.
He sprang to his feet, and stood beside her.
"You ARE going to be open with me--Edith!" he pleaded, softly.
She turned from him a little, as if to hide the signs of
her agitation. "Oh, what is there to say?" she demanded,
in a tone which was almost a wail. "It is not your fault.
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