When Margaret said 'please' in a certain way, Lushington's free will

seemed to retire from him suddenly, to contemplate his weakness from a

little distance. When she said 'please go on,' he went on, and not only

said what he had meant to say but a great deal more, too.

'It would bore you to know all about my existence,' he began, 'but as a

critic and otherwise I happen to have been often in contact with

theatrical people, especially opera-singers. I have at least

one--er--one very dear friend amongst them.

'A man?' suggested Margaret.

'No. A woman--of a certain age. As I see her very often, I naturally

see other singers, especially as she is very much liked by them. I only

tell you that to explain why I know so much about them; and if I want

to explain at all, it's only because I like you so much, and because I

suppose that what I like most about you, next to yourself, is just that

something which my dear old friend can never have. Do you understand?' Lushington was certainly very shy as a rule, and most people would have

said that he was very cold; but Margaret suddenly felt that there was a

true and deep emotion behind his plain speech.

'You have been very fond of her,' she said gently.

He flushed almost before she had finished speaking; but he could not

have been angry, for he smiled.

'Yes, I have always been very fond of her,' he answered, after a

scarcely perceptible pause, 'and I always shall be. But she is old

enough to be my mother.' 'I'm glad if it's really a friendship,' said Margaret; 'and only a

friendship,' she added.

He turned his eyes to her rather slowly.

'I believe you really are glad,' he answered. 'Thank you. I'm very fond

of you. I can't help it. I suppose I love you, and I have no business

to--and sometimes you say things that touch me. That's all.

After this rather inexplicable speech he relapsed into silence. But

there are silences of all sorts, as there is speech of all sorts. There

are silences that set one's teeth on edge--it is always a relief to

break them; and there are silences that are gentler, kinder, sweeter,

more loving, more eloquent than any words, and which it is always a

wrench to interrupt. Of these was the pause that followed now; but

Margaret was asking herself what he meant by saying that he had no

right to love her.

'Do you know what the hardest thing in my life is?' Lushington asked,

suddenly rousing himself. 'It is the certainty that my friend can never

have been and never can be at all like you in everything that appeals

to me most. But it would be still worse--oh, infinitely worse!--to see

you grow like her, by living amongst the same people. You will suffer

if you do, and you will suffer if you cannot. That is why I dread the

idea of your going on the stage.' 'But I really think I shall not change so much as you think, if I do,'

Margaret said.




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