“Yes,” said Lewisham.

“But why did you not tell me of this before?” asked Miss Heydinger.

“I don’t, know,” said Lewisham.  “I wanted to—­that day, in Kensington Gardens.  But I didn’t.  I suppose I ought to have done so.”

“I think you ought to have done so.”

“Yes, I suppose I ought ...  But I didn’t.  Somehow—­it has been hard.  I didn’t know what you would say.  The thing seemed so rash, you know, and all that.”

He paused blankly.

“I suppose you had to do it,” said Miss Heydinger presently, with her eyes on his profile.

Lewisham began the second and more difficult part of his explanation.  “There’s been a difficulty,” he said, “all the way along—­I mean—­about you, that is.  It’s a little difficult—­The fact is, my life, you know—­She looks at things differently from what we do.”

“We?”

“Yes—­it’s odd, of course.  But she has seen your letters—­”

“You didn’t show her—?”

“No.  But, I mean, she knows you write to me, and she knows you write about Socialism and Literature and—­things we have in common—­things she hasn’t.”

“You mean to say she doesn’t understand these things?”

“She’s not thought about them.  I suppose there’s a sort of difference in education—­”

“And she objects—?”

“No,” said Lewisham, lying promptly.  “She doesn’t object ...”

“Well?” said Miss Heydinger, and her face was white.

“She feels that—­She feels—­she does not say, of course, but I know she feels that it is something she ought to share.  I know—­how she cares for me.  And it shames her—­it reminds her—­Don’t you see how it hurts her?”

“Yes.  I see.  So that even that little—­” Miss Heydinger’s breath seemed to catch and she was abruptly silent.

She spoke at last with an effort.  “That it hurts me,” she said, and grimaced and stopped again.

“No,” said Lewisham, “that is not it.”  He hesitated.

“I knew this would hurt you.”

“You love her.  You can sacrifice—­”

“No.  It is not that.  But there is a difference.  Hurting her—­she would not understand.  But you—­somehow it seems a natural thing for me to come to you.  I seem to look to you—­For her I am always making allowances—­”

“You love her.”

“I wonder if it is that makes the difference.  Things are so complex.  Love means anything—­or nothing.  I know you better than I do her, you know me better than she will ever do.  I could tell you things I could not tell her.  I could put all myself before you—­almost—­and know you would understand—­Only—­”

“You love her.”

“Yes,” said Lewisham lamely and pulling at his moustache.  “I suppose ... that must be it.”

For a space neither spoke.  Then Miss Heydinger said “Oh!” with extraordinary emphasis.

“To think of this end to it all!  That all your promise ...  What is it she gives that I could not have given?