He rose, and stood.

He had not uttered the depth of what he feared concerning Lufa--that she
was simply, unobtrusively, unconsciously, absolutely selfish.

Walter had listened with a beating heart, now full of hope that he was
to be Hildebrand to this Undine, now sick with the conviction that he
was destined to fare no better than Sefton.

"Let me have my say before you go," he protested. "It will sound as
presumptuous in your ears as it does in mine--but what is to be done
except put the thing to the question?"

"There is nothing else. That is all I want. You must not go on like
this. It is sucking the life out of you. I can't bear to see it. Pray do
not misunderstand me."

"That is impossible," returned Walter.

Not a wink did he sleep that night. But ever and again across his
anxiety, throughout the dark hours, came the flattering thought that she
had never loved man yet, and he was teaching her to love. He did not
doubt Sefton, but Sefton might be right only for himself.




CHAPTER XXI.