She came and sat beside him.  “I gathered them all myself,” she said.  “Don’t you want to smell them?”

He moved his lips without replying, and she leaned down, her eyes full of the utmost compassionate tenderness and held the violets to him.  He raised a hand with evident effort and fumblingly took her wrist.  He pressed the wet flowers against his face.

“It’s a shame to bring them here, Lady Carfax,” he said, letting her go.  “Take them—­wear them!  I guess they’ll be happier with you.”

She smiled a little.  “Should I have gathered all this quantity for myself?  It has taken me nearly an hour.”

“You should have told the gardener,” he said.  “You mustn’t go tiring yourself out over me.  I’m not worth it.”  He added, with that kindly courtesy of which adversity had never deprived him, “But I’m real grateful all the same.  You mustn’t think me unappreciative.”

“I don’t,” she answered gently.  “Wouldn’t you like them in water?”

“Ah, yes,” he said.  “Put them near me.  I shall smell them if I can’t see them.  Do you mind closing the window?  I can’t get warm to-day.”

She moved to comply, passing across his line of vision.  A moment she stood with the keen sweet air blowing in upon her, a tall, gracious figure in the full flower of comely womanhood, not beautiful, but possessing in every line of her that queenly, indescribable charm which is greater than beauty.

The man caught his breath as he watched her.  His brows contracted.

Softly she closed the window and turned.  She came back to her chair by his side, drew forward a little table, and began deftly to arrange her flowers.

Several seconds passed before Lucas broke the silence.  “It does me good to watch you,” he said.  “You’re always so serene.”

She smiled at him across the violets.  “You place serenity among the higher virtues?”

“I do,” he said simply.  “It’s such a restful contrast to the strenuousness of life.  You make me feel just by looking at you that everything’s all right.  You bring a peaceful atmosphere in with you, and”—­his voice sank a little—­“you take it away again when you go.”

The smile went out of her grey eyes at his last words, but the steadfastness remained.  “Then,” she said gently, “I must come more often and stay longer.”

But he instantly negatived that.  “No—­it wouldn’t be good for you.  It wouldn’t be good for me either to get to lean on you too much.  I should grow exacting.”

She saw a gleam of his old smile as he spoke, but it was gone at once, lost among the countless lines that pain and weariness had drawn of late upon his face.

“I don’t think that is very likely,” Anne said.  “I can’t imagine it.”

“Not yet perhaps.  I haven’t quite reached that stage.  Maybe I shall be down and out before it comes.  God grant it!”

The words were too deliberate to cause her any shock.  They were, moreover, not wholly unexpected.  There followed a short silence while she finished arranging her violets.  Then very quietly she spoke: