From time to time the girl cast a furtive glance toward him; but he was looking straight ahead with a darkly set face; and an ache, dull, scarcely perceptible, grew in her heart as they flew on along the glimmering road.

“Of what are you thinking, brother?” she asked persuasively.

“Of something I am going to do; as soon as I reach home; I mean your home.”

“I wish it were yours, too,” she said, smiling frankly; “you are such a safe, sound, satisfactory substitute for another brother.” ...  And as he made no response:  “What is this thing which you are going to do when you reach home?”

“I am going to ask your mother a question.”

Unquiet she turned toward him, but his face was doggedly set forward as the chair circled through the gates and swept up to the terrace.

He sprang out; and as he aided her to descend she felt his hand trembling under hers.  A blind thrill of premonition halted her; then she bit her lip, turned, and mounted the steps with him.  At the door he stood aside for her to pass; but again she paused and turned to Hamil, irresolute, confused, not even daring to analyse what sheer instinct was clamouring; what intuition was reading even now in his face, what her ears divined in his unsteady voice uttering some commonplace to thank her for the day spent with him.

“What is it that you are going to say to my mother?” she asked again.

And at the same instant she knew from his eyes—­gazing into them in dread and dismay.

“Don’t!” she said breathlessly; “I cannot let—­” The mounting wave of colour swept her:  “Don’t go to her!—­don’t ask such a—­a thing.  I am—­”

She faltered, looking up at him with terrified eyes, and laid one hand on his arm.

The frightened wordless appeal stunned him as they stood there, confronting one another.  Suddenly hope came surging up within her; her hand fell from his arm; she lifted her eyes in flushed silence—­only to find hopeless confirmation of all she dreaded in his set and colourless face.

“Mr. Hamil,” she said tremulously, “I never dreamed—­”

“No, you didn’t.  I did.  It is all right, Shiela.”

“Oh—­I—­I never, never dreamed of it!”—­shocked and pitifully incredulous still.

“I know you didn’t.  Don’t worry.”  His voice was very gentle, but he was not looking at her.

“Is it my—­fault, Mr. Hamil?”

“Your fault?” he repeated, surprised.  “What have you done?”

“I—­don’t know.”

He stood gazing absently out into the flaming west; and, speaking as though unaware:  “From the first—­I realise it now—­even from the first moment when you sprang into my life out of the fog and the sea—­Shiela!  Shiela!—­I—­”

“Don’t!” she whispered, “don’t say it.”  She swayed back against the wall; her hand covered her eyes an instant—­and dropped helpless, hopeless.

They faced each other.