partly realised the great, unselfish love for him which filled her
heart.

He was completely understood. He rested in that fact, without in the
least comprehending his own lack of comprehension.

Moving close to him, she laid both hands upon his shoulders, hiding her
face in silence against his breast.

He stroked her soft hair--helplessly, tenderly.

With his whole heart he loved her, leaned upon her, needed her. She had
done everything for him; been everything to him.

But he meant to carry his point. He intended to go to Central Africa,
and it was no sort of good pretending he did not. You never pretended
with Helen, because she saw through you immediately, and usually told
you so.

He had not spent a single night away from her since that wonderful day
when, calm and radiant, she had moved up the church in presence of an
admiring crowd, and taken her place at his side.

He was practically unknown then, as a writer. No one but Helen believed
in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish. Whereas Helen
herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner
of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired,
sought after. Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness. Helen
had a royal way of giving. The very way she throned you in her heart,
dropped you on one knee before her footstool.