She looked at him steadfastly. Perhaps for a moment her thoughts
travelled back to those unforgotten days in the rose-gardens at Blakely,
to the man whose delicate but wholesome joy in the wind and the sun and
the flowers, the sea-stained marshes and the windy knolls where they had
so often stood together, she could not forget. His life had seemed to her
then so beautiful a thing. The elementary purity of his thoughts and
aspirations were unmistakable. She told herself passionately that there
must be a way out.

"Lawrence," she said, "we are man and woman, not boy and girl. You asked
me to marry you once, and I hesitated, only because of one thing. I do
not wish to look into any hidden chambers of your life. I wish to know
nothing, save of the present. What claim has this woman Blanche
Phillimore upon you?"

"It is her secret," he answered, "not mine alone."

"She lives in your house--through her you are a poor man--through her you
are back again, a worker in the world."

"Yes!"

"It must always be so?"

"Yes."

"And you have nothing more to say?"

"If I dared," he said, raising his eyes to hers, "I would say--trust me!