dreamily, talking half to himself; "for it's a long while ago now. But to me it seems as if it had all just happened. You see I've been vegetating rather, here in this lonely, little place . . . Don't go on crying, Ethel dear . . . let me tell you about things a little. There's no harm in it now, because you know I'm———"
"Oh! don't—don't say that. You'll get better. I know you will."
"No, Ethel, I sha'n't. Something within me tells me that my course is done. Besides, I don't want to get better. I'm so happy . . . Stay a little with me, Ethel . . . I wanted to explain . . . I was stupid, selfish, in the old days———"
"It was I—I who———" she protested through her tears.
"No, you were quite right to write me that letter. I've thought that almost from the first . . . I'm sure of it," he added, as if convincing himself definitely. "It could never be . . . it was my fault . . . I was stupid and boorish and wrapped up in myself. I did not try to understand your nature . . . I didn't understand anything about women . . . I never had a sister . . . I took for granted that you were always thinking and feeling just as I was. I never tried to understand you, Ethel . . . I was not fit to be entrusted with you."
"Alec, Alec, it is not true. You were too good, too noblehearted. I felt you were far above me. Beside you I felt I was silly and frivolous. Your standards about everything seemed so high———"
But he interrupted, unheeding her:
"You don't know, Ethel, how happy you've made me. . . . I have thought of you every day. In the evenings, I used to sit alone, remembering you and all the happy days we had together, and the remembrance of them has been a great joy to me. I used to go over them all, again and again. The day that we all wentto
