"Stella, just listen to me. I want you to know that had things been
different I should have rejoiced beyond words."

"Oh, don't!" she cried.

"I must," he answered and she was silent. "I want you to know," he
repeated, stammering and stumbling, afraid lest each word meant to heal
should only pierce the deeper. "Before I came here there was no one.
Since I came here there has been--you. Oh, my dear, I would have been
very glad. But I am obscure--without means. There are years in front of
me before I shall be anything else. I couldn't ask you to share them--or
I should have done so before now."

In her mind ran the thought: what queer unimportant things men think
about! The early years! Wouldn't their difficulties, their sorrows be the
real savour of life and make it worth remembrance, worth treasuring? But
men had the right of speech. Not again would she forget that. She bowed
her head and he blundered on.

"For you there'll be a better destiny. There's that great house in the
Park with its burnt walls. I should like to see that rebuilt and you in
your right place, its mistress." And his words ceased as Stella abruptly
turned to him. She was breathing quickly and she looked at him with a
wonder in her trouble.

"And it hurts you to say this!" she said. "Yes, it actually hurts you."

"What else could I say?"

Her face softened as she looked and heard. It was not that he was cold of