meeting his look steadily her thought grew clear again.

'I cannot give you that, Mr. Egremont.'

As his eyes fell, she hastened to add:

'I think of you often. I feel glad to know you, and to share in your
interest. But this is no more than the friendship which many people
have for you--quite different from the feeling which you say would
aid you. I have never known that.'

He was gazing across the lake. The melancholy always lurking in the
thoughtfulness of his face had become predominant. Yet he turned to
her with the smile once more.

'Those last words must be my hope. To have your friendship is much.
Perhaps some day I may win more.'

'I think,' she said, with a sincerity which proved how far she was
from emotion, 'that you will meet another woman whose sympathy will
be far more to you than mine.'

'Then I must have slight knowledge of myself. I have known you for
seven years, and, though you were a child when we first spoke to
each other, I foresaw then what I tell you now. Every woman that I
meet I compare with you; and if I imagine the ideal woman she has
your face and your mind. I should have spoken when I was here last
autumn, but I felt that I had no right to ask you to share my life
as long as it remained so valueless. You see'--he smiled--'how I
have grown in my own esteem. I suppose that is always the first