fortably into middle-ago, and not caring whether anyone cared much for me or not!—Oh, well, no fool like a middle-aged fool. I hope I shall get knocked on the head in this row, if there's going to be one—that'll make it all right."
"Don't be Byronic. I never thought you were sentimental."
"Yes, but I am. I want to be. Bear with me for a little. … I want a photograph of you. Have you got one?"
"Not here, but I'll send you one."
This time Teresa was careful not to say anything about Rosamond. The hour for coquetry was decidedly past, and the freedom of their earlier talks. She was oppressed by Crayven's seriousness, and a little frightened by it.
"That's all I shall have of you," he said moodily. "A photograph—that won't give me anything real of you—not your beautiful colour, nor all that changing expression of your face. But don't forget that I have cared a lot about you—don't forget. I'm a constant brute, a faithful one. If you ever needed me—but that's absurd."
He flung away a half-smoked cigarette, and began tearing up the moss near him with nervous fingers.
"You believe that, don't you?" he went on hurriedly. "You believe there's been something real in this—that it's been real to me?"
