“He never thought much of me, and now he hates me.”

“No; that is impossible.”

“If you had heard him speaking to me last night, you would think differently.  He makes it a crime that I should love you.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“What’s more, he has feared this ever since I came; I feel sure of it.  When I was coming back from Pompeii, he took me with him to Amalfi all but by force.  He dreaded my returning and seeing you.”

“But why should he think of such a thing?”

“Why?”

Elgar led her a few paces, until they stood before a mirror.

“Don’t look at me.  The other face, which is a little paler than it should be.”

She hid it against him.

“But you don’t love me for my face only?  You will see others who have more beauty.”

“Perhaps so.  Mallard hopes so, in the long time we shall have to wait.”

She fixed startled eyes on him.

“He cannot wish me so ill—­he cannot!  That would be unlike him.”

“He wishes you no ill, be sure of it.”

“Oh, you haven’t spoken to him as you should!  You haven’t made him understand you.  Let me speak to him for you.”

“Cecily.”

“Dearest?”

“Suppose he doesn’t wish to understand me.  Have you never thought, when he has pretended to treat you as a child, that there might be some reason for it?  Did it never occur to you that, if he spoke too roughly, it might be because he was afraid of being too gentle?”

“Never!  That thought has never approached my mind.  You don’t speak in earnest?”

Why could he not command his tongue?  Why have suggested this to her imagination?  He did not wholly mean to say it, even to the last moment; but unwisdom, as so often, overcame him.  It was a way of defending himself; he wished to imply that Mallard had a powerful reason for assailing his character.  He had been convinced since last night that Mallard was embittered by jealousy, and he half credited the fear lest jealousy might urge to the use of any weapons against him; he was tempted by the satisfaction of putting Cecily on her guard against interested motives.  But he should not have troubled her soul with such suspicions.  He read on her face how she was pained, and her next word. proved his folly.

“If you are right, I can never speak to him as I might have done.  It alters everything; it makes everything harder.  You are mistaken.”

“I may be.  Let us hope I am.”

“How I wish I had never seen that possibility!  I cannot believe it; yet it will prevent me from looking honestly in his face, as I always have done.”

“Forget it.  Let us speak only of ourselves.”

But she was troubled, and Elgar, angry with himself, spoke impatiently.

“In pity for him, you would love me less.  I see that.”