“The world extends beyond your pleasant comradeship,” she said.  “How does the world regard a woman of no origin—­whose very name is a charity—­”

“Shiela!”

“W-what?” she said, trying to smile; and then slowly laid her head in her hands, covering her face.

She had given way, very silently, for as he bent close to her he felt the tearful aroma of her uneven breath—­the feverish flush on cheek and hand, the almost imperceptible tremor of her slender body—­rather close to him now.

When she had regained her composure, and her voice was under command, she straightened up, face averted.

“You are quite perfect, Mr. Hamil; you have not hurt me with one misguided and well-intended word.  That is exactly as it should be between us—­must always be.”

“Of course,” he said slowly.

She nodded, still looking away from him.  “Let us each enjoy our own griefs unmolested.  You have yours?”

“No, Shiela, I haven’t any griefs.”

“Come to me when you have; I shall not humiliate you with words to shame your intelligence and my own.  If you suffer you suffer; but it is well to be near a friend—­not too near, Mr. Hamil.”

“Not too near,” he repeated.

“No; that is unendurable.  The counter-irritant to grief is sanity, not emotion.  When a woman is a little frightened the presence of the unafraid is what steadies her.”

She looked over her shoulder into the water, reached down, broke off a blossom of wild hyacinth, and, turning, drew it through the button-hole of his coat.

“You certainly are very sweet to me,” she said quietly.  And, laughing a little:  “The entire family adores you with pills—­and I’ve now decorated you with the lovely curse of our Southern rivers.  But—­there are no such things as weeds; a weed is only a miracle in the wrong place....  Well—­shall we walk and moralise or remain here and make cat-cradle conversation?...  You are looking at me very solemnly.”

“I was thinking—­”

“What?”

“That, perhaps, I never before knew a girl as well as I know you.”

“Not even Miss Suydam?”

“Lord, no!  I never dreamed of knowing her—­I mean her real self.  You understand, she and I have always taken each other for granted—­never with any genuine intimacy.”

“Oh!  And—­this—­ours—­is genuine intimacy?”

“Is it not?”

For a moment her teeth worried the bright velvet of her lip, then meeting his gaze: 

“I mean to be—­honest—­with you,” she said with a tremor in her voice; but her regard wavered under his.  “I mean to be,” she repeated so low he scarcely heard her.  Then with a sudden animation a little strained:  “When this winter has become a memory let it be a happy one for you and me.  And by the same token you and I had better think about dressing.  You don’t mind, do you, if I take you to meet Mrs. Ascott?—­she was Countess de Caldelis; it’s taken her years to secure her divorce.”