“You have indeed.”

“Well, are we going to sit here all night?”

“I’m ready.”

They walked back in silence over the straight path that seemed as if it would never end.  Flossie stopped half-way in it, stung by an idea.

“There’s something you haven’t thought of.  What are you going to do with the house?  And with all that furniture?”

“Let them to somebody.  That’s all right, Beaver.  The house and the furniture can’t run away.”

“No, but they’ll never be the same again.”

Nothing would ever be the same again; that was clear.  The flowers were still gay in the Broad Walk, and the children, though a little sleepier, were still adorable; but Flossie did not turn to look at them as she passed.  Would she ever look at them, at anything, with pleasure again?  He had made life very difficult, very cruel to this poor child, whom after all he had promised to protect and care for.

“I say, Beaver dear, it is hard luck on you.”

The look and the tone would have softened most women, at least for the time being; but the Beaver remained implacable.

“I’ll try to make it easier for you.  I’ll work like mad.  I’ll do anything to shorten the time.”

“Shorten the time?  You don’t know how many years you’re asking me to wait.”

“I’m not asking you to wait.  I’m asking you to choose.”

“Do you want me to do it now?”

“No, certainly not.”  She was not indeed in a mood favourable to choice; and he would not influence her decision.  It was mean to urge her to an arduous constancy; meaner still to precipitate her refusal.  “You must think.  You can, you know, when you give your mind to it.”

She appeared to be giving her mind to it for the rest of the way home; and her silence left him also free to think it over.  After all, what had he done?  He had not asked her to wait, but what if he had?  Many men have to ask as much of the woman who loves them.  Some men have asked even more of the woman whom they love.  That was the secret.  He could have asked it with a clear conscience if he had but loved her.

CHAPTER LXIV

Flossie was in no hurry about making up her mind.  If Keith had asked her to give him time, it was only fair that he should give her time too, and since his mind was made up in any case, time could be no object to him.  So days and weeks had passed on and she had conveyed to him no hint of her decision.

On that Sunday evening, in the seclusion of her bedroom, Flossie said to herself that she had made one great mistake.  Prudence and foresight were all very well in their way, but this time she had blundered through excess of caution.  In sticking to the post that made her independent she had broken her strongest line of defence.  If only she had had the courage to relinquish it at the crucial moment, she would have stood a very much better chance in