"I have seen you--and I admire you. I have all the affection of a
brother for you, Philippa--" and then he paused abruptly.

"But," she supplied, "you have never thought of making me your wife?
Speak to me quite frankly, Norman."

"No, Philippa, I have not."

"As matters stand between us, they require explanation," she said; and
he saw her lips grow pale. "It is not pleasant for me to have to mention
it, but I must do it. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to
believe when we were children--that our lives were to be passed
together?"

"My dearest Philippa, pray spare yourself and me. I did not know that
you even remembered that childish nonsense."

She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something in them
before which he shrank as one who feels pain.

"One word, Norman--only one word. That past which has been so much to
me--that past in which I have lived, even more than in the present or
the future--am I to look upon it as what you call nonsense?"

He took her hand in his.

"My dear Philippa," he said, "I hate myself for what I have to say--it
makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right--there
is nothing for us but perfect frankness; anything else would be foolish.