He bent over to pick up a scarf of silver gauze which had slipped from her shoulders.  He laid it about them, and as he did so she shivered suddenly, though the air was warm, without a hint of dampness.  But she covered the involuntary movement with a shrug, saying lightly, “A man I know says he thoroughly believes a woman is colder rather than warmer in a scarf like this, on the theory that anything with so many holes in it must create an infinite number of small draughts.”

“He may be right.  But I confess, as a physician, I like to cover up exposed surfaces from the open night air—­to a certain extent—­even with an excuse for a protection like this.”

He sat down beside her.  The bench was not a long one, and he was nearer to her than he had yet been to-night.  She sat quietly, one hand lying motionless in her lap.  The other hand, down at her side, laid hold of the edge of the bench and gripped it rather tightly.  She began to talk about the old garden, as it lay before them, its straggling paths and beds of flowers mere patches of shadow, dark and light.  He answered, now and then, in an absent sort of way, as if his mind were upon something else, and he only partly heard.  She spoke of “Sunny Farm”—­the children’s hospital in the country—­of Burns and Ellen and Bob—­and then, suddenly, with a sense of the uselessness of trying all by herself to make small talk under conditions of growing constraint, she fell silent.  He let the silence endure for a little space, then broke it bluntly.

“I’m glad,” he said, in the deep, quiet voice she remembered well, “that you will give me a chance.  What is the use of pretending that I have brought you here to talk of other people?  I have something to say to you, and you know it.  I can’t lead up to it by any art, for it has become merely a fact which it is your right to know.  You should have known it long ago.”

He stopped for a minute.  She was absolutely still beside him, except for the hand that gripped the edge of the bench.  That took a fresh hold.

When he spoke again, his voice, though still quiet, showed tension.

“Before I saw you the last time, last spring, I meant to ask you to marry me.  When I did see you, something had happened to make that impossible.  It had not only made it impossible, but it made me unable even to explain.  I shall never forget that strange hour I spent with you.  You knew that something was the matter.  But I couldn’t tell you.  I thought then I never could.  Seeing you, as I have to-night, I realized that I couldn’t wait another hour to tell you.  But, even now, I don’t feel that I can explain.  There’s only one thing I am sure of—­that I must say this much:  All my seeking of you, last winter, meant the full intent and purpose to win you, if I could.  And—­you can never know what it meant to me to give it up.”

The last words were almost below his breath, but she heard them, heard the uncontrollable, passionate ache of them.  Plainer than the words themselves this quality in them spoke for him.