little room, and saw that his eyes were large with fatigue and anxiety, she knew that she could not rest until she had shared all with Dick. She had always wanted to share Marthe Ludérac with him; had always wanted him to see her as she saw her; but that he should share and see was now part of that new sense of responsibility that had come to her:—Dick and Marthe must see each other. She owed it to them both that they should see each other. What basis could there be for her friendship with Marthe unless Dick shared it?
'My darling child—where have you been!' said Graham. He came to her and put his arms around her and she sank on the sofa beside him, and laid her head on his shoulder and suddenly began to cry. And such a strange foolish little thing came first. 'Oh, Dick—I'm so afraid you'll be displeased with me!—If we stay—if you've decided to stay—please say you won't go up in the mornings, when Marthe reads!'
'What do you mean, my dearest?—Displeased with you? Why should I be?' Poor Dick was really frightened by her plight.
But she could not stop herself from sobbing on. 'She's unhappy about it;—because you made the old lady so miserable.—And I promised her, too, that I'd meet her on the island to-morrow.—Only, if we have to go—'
Dick was perfectly still—for one moment; only one. Then he said, very firmly, very rationally: 'But, Jill, what's the matter? You're ill, my dear. Your
