“They talk of the divine power of song!” he continued.  “Well, what I want to do is this.  I can sing a little; and I want to know that this gift I have from Nature hasn’t been entirely thrown away—­scattered to the winds and lost.  Here in Brighton they are always getting up morning or afternoon concerts for charitable purposes; and I wish, Miss Honnor, when you happen to be interested in any of these, you would let me know; I should be delighted to run down and volunteer my services.  I should be just delighted.  It would be something saved.  If I were struck down by an illness, and had to lie thinking, I could say to myself that I had done this little scrap of good—­not much for a man to do, but I suppose all that could be expected from a singer.”

She could not understand this strange disparagement of himself and his profession; and she may have been vaguely afraid of the drift of these confidences; at all events, when she had thanked him for his generous offer, she rose and went to the portfolio.

“There are some things here that I think will interest you, Mr. Moore,” she said.  “They only arrived last night, and I was just putting them away when you came in.”

He went to the portfolio; she took out two or three large photographs and handed them to him; the first glance showed him what they were—­pictures of the Aivron and the Geinig valleys, with the rocks and pools and overhanging woods he knew so well.  He regarded them for an instant or two.

“Do you know what first made me long to get away from the theatre?” he said, in a low voice.  “It was those places there.  It was Strathaivron—­and you.”

“I, Mr. Moore?”

And now he had to go on; he had taken his fate in his hands; there was some kind of despairing recklessness in his brain; his breath came and went quickly and painfully as he spoke.

“Well, I must tell you now, whatever comes of it.  I must tell you the truth—­you may think it madness—­I cannot help that.  What I want to do is to give up the theatre altogether.  I want to let all that go, with a past never to be regretted—­never to be recalled.  I want to make for myself a new future—­if you will share it with me.”

“Mr. Moore!”

Their eyes met; hers frightened, his eagerly and tremblingly expectant.

“There, now you know the truth.  Will you say but one word?  Honnor—­may I hope?”

He sought to take her hand, but she shrank back a step—­not in anger, but apparently quite stupefied.

“Oh, no, no, Mr. Moore,” she said, piteously.  “What have I done?  How could I imagine you were thinking of any such thing?  And—­and on my account—­that you should dream of making such a sacrifice—­giving up your reputation and your position—­”

Where was his acting now?—­where the passionate appeal he would have made on the stage?  He stood stock-still—­his eyes bent earnestly on hers—­and he spoke slowly: