and for the moment of living; full of explanations which really explained little; full too of the untaught pangs and questionings of a mind which had never given any sustained or exhaustive effort to any philosophical or social question, and yet was in a sense tortured by them all—­athirst for an impossible justice, and aflame for ideals mocked first and above all by the writer’s own weakness and defect.  Hallin had felt them interesting, sad, and, in a sense, fine; but he had never braced himself to answer them without groans.  There were so many other people in the world in the same plight!

Nevertheless, all through the growth of friendship one thing had never altered between them from the beginning—­Hallin’s irrevocable judgment of the treatment she had bestowed on Aldous Raeburn.  Never throughout the whole course of their acquaintance had he expressed that judgment to her in so many words.  Notwithstanding, she knew perfectly well both the nature and the force of it.  It lay like a rock in the stream of their friendship.  The currents of talk might circle round it, imply it, glance off from it; they left it unchanged.  At the root of his mind towards her, at the bottom of his gentle sensitive nature, there was a sternness which he often forgot—­she never.

This hard fact in their relation had insensibly influenced her greatly, was constantly indeed working in and upon her, especially since the chances of her nursing career had brought her to settle in this district, within a stone’s throw of him and his sister, so that she saw them often and intimately.  But it worked in different ways.  Sometimes—­as to-night—­it evoked a kind of defiance.

A minute or two after he had made his remark about Aldous, she said to him suddenly,

“I had a letter from Mr. Wharton to-day.  He is coming to tea with me to-morrow, and I shall probably go to the House on Friday with Edith Craven to hear him speak.”

Hallin gave a slight start at the name.  Then he said nothing; but went on sorting some letters of the day into different heaps.  His silence roused her irritation.

“Do you remember,” she said, in a low, energetic voice, “that I told you I could never be ungrateful, never forget what he had done?”

“Yes, I remember,” he said, not without a certain sharpness of tone.  “You spoke of giving him help if he ever asked it of you—­has he asked it?”

She explained that what he seemed to be asking was Louis Craven’s help, and that his overtures with regard to the Labour Clarion were particularly opportune, seeing that Louis was pining to be able to marry, and was losing heart, hope, and health for want of some fixed employment.  She spoke warmly of her friends and their troubles, and Hallin’s inward distaste had to admit that all she said was plausible.  Since the moment in that strange talk which had drawn them together, when she had turned upon him with the passionate cry—­“I