that opposition would be futile, so he turned into his wife's room.

"I thought I heard voices in the hall," Mrs. Gorham greeted her husband,
affectionately. "You have returned early, which will give us a little
visit together before dinner-time. Has the day been satisfactory?"

Gorham did not reply at once. He held her face between his hands,
looking down into the depth of her eyes with a strength of feeling which
she could but sense. There was an expression of expectancy, an unspoken
desire that she should recognize something which as yet she had failed
to see. There was a tenseness which would have frightened her except for
the tenderness which accompanied it.

"Why do you look at me like that, Robert?"

"Because I love you, Eleanor," he replied at length. "Isn't that an
admission for a man of my age to make? I know it always, but there are
times when I must tell you so. Don't call it weakness, dear, or
sentimentality. There is a relief which I could never explain in turning
from these battles with men and with events to your companionship, which
demanded nothing from me except myself."

"Nothing except yourself?" Mrs. Gorham smiled, reassured. "What more
could one ask or give? Now that you have confessed, I must do likewise:
I simply count the moments every day until you come, but I never should
have dared to tell you for fear you would laugh at me. What would this
callous world say if it discovered that the great Robert Gorham and his
insignificant wife were really in love with each other! But I am so
thankful for it, dear. What do the years mean unless they add to one's
power to love?"