For her marriage had been one of romantic pity, born of the ignorance of her immaturity; and she was very young when she became the wife of Warfield Paige—­Celia’s brother—­a gentle, sweet-tempered invalid, dreamy, romantic, and pitifully confident of life, the days of which were already numbered.

Of the spiritual passions she knew a little—­of the passion of pity, of consent, of self-sacrifice, of response to spiritual need.  But neither in her early immaturity nor in later adolescence had she ever before entertained even the most innocent inclination for a man.  Man’s attractions, physical and personal, had left only the lightest of surface impressions—­until the advent of this man.

To what in him was she responsive?  What intellectual charm had he revealed?  What latent spiritual excellence did she suspect?  What were his lesser qualities—­the simpler moral virtues—­the admirable attributes which a woman could recognise.  Nay, where even were the nobler failings, the forgivable faults, the promise of future things?

Her uplifted, questioning eyes searched and fell.  Only the clear-cut beauty of his head answered her, only the body’s grace.

She sometimes suspected pity as her one besetting sin.  Was it pity for this man—­a young man only twenty-four, her own age, so cheerful under the crushing weight of material ruin?  Was it his poverty that appealed?

Was it her instinct to protect?  If all she heard was true, he sorely needed protection from himself.  For tales of him had filtered to her young ears—­indefinite rumours of unworthy things—­of youth wasted and manhood threatened—­of excesses incomprehensible to her, and to those who hinted them to her.

Was it his solitude in the world for which she was sorry?  She had no parents, either.  But she had their house and their memories concrete in every picture, every curtain, every chair and sofa.  Twilight whispered of them through every hallway, every room; dawn was instinct with their unseen spirits, sweetening everything in the quiet old house. . . .  And that day she had learned where he lived.  And she dared not imagine how.

They turned together into the quiet, tree-shaded street, and, in the mellow sunset light, something about it, and the pleasant vine-hung house, and the sense of restfulness moved her with a wistful impulse that he, too, should share a little of the home welcome that awaited her from her own kin.

“Will you remain and dine with us, Mr. Berkley?”

He looked up, so frankly surprised at her kindness that it hurt her all through.

“I want to be friends with you,” she said impulsively.  “Didn’t you know it?”

They had halted at the foot of the stoop.

“I should think you could see how easy it would he for us to become friends,” she said with pretty self-possession.  But her heart was beating violently.