was no air of conceit in it. Besides Ellen knew its truth; she had seen Sabine with her own eyes, weeping, suffering in a fashion she had once believed impossible, and pretending all the while that such suffering had been caused by a sick kitten. Yet it was this which somehow frightened her; she was afraid lest one day she herself might be humbled in the same fashion.
"My mother," he was saying, "is as you know, a Greek, and there is a great deal of the Greek in me. Sometimes I fancy I am Oriental . . . utterly, completely. An eastern man admires a woman of beauty and of spirit. He wants such a woman for the mother of his children." He unclasped his hands and took her hand in his. "But don't fancy that I love you in that way only. Sabine was a fine match in a worldly sense. She was rich. She was fashionable. But I too am that, so what could it mean to me? It was more than that which I wanted. I still want it. I want you to marry me as soon as it is possible."
She did not free her hand, though the touch made her faint as it had done so many years before. She was conscious suddenly that the old sense of conflict was gone, the old feeling of a hidden antagonism between them. Could it be that it was because he was humble now, asking something of her rather than coming boldly to her to claim it?
"And still," she heard herself saying, "I am not certain that it would work out. I don't know. . . . You must give me time."
Then he had kissed her hand and murmured, "We have not so much time as we once had. . . . Perhaps I have even less than I know now."
To this she had chosen to make no answer. Instead, she had played for him until Fergus blundered in upon them.
It was in the midst of these thoughts that she heard Callendar say, as he stood balancing himself before the fire, "We could go to the south to-morrow, if you like. I could arrange to have my permission extended. De Cyon could do it for me. We could have a week together there."
