He crossed the corridor, slowly; she straightened up at his approach, white, rigid, breathless.

“What is it that has frightened you?” he said.

“What you—­said—­to me.”

“That I love you?”

“Yes; that.”

“Why should it frighten you?”

“Must I tell you?”

“If it will help you.”

“I am past help.  But it will end you’re caring for me.  And from making me—­care—­for you.  I must do it; this cannot go on—­”

“Shiela!”

She faced him, white as death, looking at him blindly.

“I am trying to think of you—­because you love me—­”

Fright chilled her blood, killing pulse and colour.  “I am trying to be kind—­because I care for you—­and we must end this before it ends us....  Listen to my miserable, pitiful, little secret, Mr. Hamil.  I—­I have—­I am not—­free.”

“Not free!”

“I was married two years ago—­when I was eighteen years old.  Three people in the world know it:  you, I, and—­the man I married.”

“Married!” he repeated, stupefied.

She looked at him steadily a moment.

“I think your love has been done to death, Mr. Hamil.  My own danger was greater than you knew; but it was for your sake—­because you loved me.  Good night.”

Stunned, he saw her pass him and descend the stairs, stood for a space alone, then scarce knowing what he did he went down into the great living-room to take his leave of the family gathered there before dinner had been announced.  They all seemed to be there; he was indifferently conscious of hearing his own words like a man who listens to an unfamiliar voice in a distant room.

The rapid soundless night ride to the hotel seemed unreal; the lights in the cafe, the noise and movement, the pretty face of his aunt with the pink reflection from the candle shades on her cheeks—­all seemed as unconvincing as himself and this thing that he could not grasp—­could not understand—­could not realise had befallen him—­and her.

If Miss Palliser was sensible of any change in him or his voice or manner she did not betray it.  Wayward came over to speak to them, limping very slightly, tall, straight, ruddy, the gray silvering his temples and edging his moustache.

And after a while Hamil found himself sitting silent, a partly burnt cigar between his fingers, watching Wayward and his youthful aunt in half-intimate, half-formal badinage, elbow to elbow on the cloth.  For they had known one another a long time, and through many phases of Fate and Destiny.

“That little Cardross girl is playing the devil with the callow hereabout,” Wayward said; “Malcourt, house-broken, runs to heel with the rest.  And when I see her I feel like joining the pack.  Only—­I was never broken, you know—­”

“She is a real beauty,” said Miss Palliser warmly; “I don’t see why you don’t enlist, James.”