He stood up suddenly in the darkness, and she sprang to her feet, breathless; for she had caught the low exclamation, and the strange sound that stifled it in his throat.

“Tell me,” she stammered, “w-what has happened.  D-don’t turn away to the window; don’t leave me all alone to endure this—­this something I have known was drawing you away—­I don’t know where!  What is it?  Could you not tell me, Captain Selwyn?  I—­I have been very frank with you; I have been truthful—­and loyal.  I gave you, from the moment I knew you, all of me there was to give.  And—­and if there is more to give—­now—­it was yours when it came to me.

“Do you think I am too young to know what I am saying?  Solitude is a teacher.  I—­I am still a scholar, perhaps, but I think that you could teach me what my drill-master, Solitude, could not . . . if it—­it is true you love me.”

The mounting sea of passion swept him; he turned on her, unsteadily, his hands clenched, not daring to touch her.  Shame, contrition, horror that the damage was already done, all were forgotten; only the deadly grim duty of the moment held him back.

“Dear,” he said, “because I am unchanged—­because I—­I love you so—­help me!—­and God help us both.”

“Tell me,” she said steadily, but it was fear that stilled her voice.  She laid one slim hand on the table, bearing down on the points of her fingers until the nails whitened, but her head was high and her eyes met his, straight, unwavering.

“I—­I knew it,” she said; “I understood there was something.  If it is trouble—­and I see it is—­bring it to me.  If I am the woman you took me for, give me my part in this.  It is the quickest way to my heart, Captain Selwyn.”

But he had grown afraid, horribly afraid.  All the cowardice in him was in the ascendant.  But that passed; watching his worn face, she saw it passing.  Fear clutched at her; for the first time in her life she desired to go to him, hold fast to him, seeking in contact the reassurance of his strength; but she only stood straighter, a little paler, already half divining in the clairvoyance of her young soul what lay still hidden.

“Do you ask a part in this?” he said at last.

“I ask it.”

“Why?”

Her eyes wavered, then returned his gaze: 

“For love of you,” she said, as white as death.

He caught his breath sharply and straightened out, passing one hand across his eyes.  When she saw his face again in the dim light it was ghastly.

“There was a woman,” he said, “for whom I was once responsible.”  He spoke wearily, head bent, resting the weight of one arm on the table against which she leaned.  “Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes.  You mean—­Mrs. Ruthven.”

“I mean—­her.  Afterward—­when matters had altered—­I came—­home.”

He raised his head and looked about him in the darkness.

“Came home,” he repeated, “no longer a man; the shadow of a man, with no hope, no outlook, no right to hope.”