Once outside Julia's bedroom door, the solicitor took a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his dinner-jacket and pretended to blow his nose. He wanted, in his own elegant phraseology, "to blub like anything." For the moment, his essentially legal mind was off its balance. "I must control myself," he thought; "I mustn't let those people downstairs see."

And perhaps, if Ronnie and Aliette had been in the drawing-room, James Wilberforce might have succeeded in disciplining himself. But Mollie was alone; had been alone for a whole anxious hour.

"Jimmy"--she rose from the sofa as he entered, and her eyes met his across the sudden brightness of the room--"Jimmy, what's the matter? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"Nothing's the matter," he said dully.

"You're sure?"

"Quite. She's asleep." He came across the room to her, and they faced one another, all pretense wiped from their eyes.

"Tell me," said the girl at last. "Tell me, is it quite hopeless? Does she--does she know?"

"Yes. She knows."

"How terrible!" Mollie's voice trembled. "Jimmy, won't you tell me what she said? There might be some way in which I could help----"

"There's only one way in which you can help me, Mollie."

"Don't! Please don't!" Her hands protested. "We mustn't think of ourselves. Not here. Not now."

"Why not!" he said sullenly; and then, sinking heavily into a chair, "I suppose you're right, dear. Life's a rotten mess----"

"Poor Jimmy!" Mollie's voice was very tender. "My poor Jimmy!" She put her hand on his head. He grasped it feverishly; and quite suddenly she knew that her James, her unemotional Philistine of a James, was crying.

Thought expired like a candle in the mind of Mollie Fullerford. She was just conscious that Jimmy had risen from his chair--that his hand still grasped hers--that he was leading her through the open windows--over a lawn which felt damp to her thin-shod feet--under a moon-fretted tree--toward the dark of shrubberies.

Somehow they were standing on a bridge; a little rustic bridge, mossy banks and moss-green water below. Her hands on the bridge-rail quivered like the hands of a 'cello player. She was quivering all over, quivering like a restive horse. Jimmy's arm was round her shoulders. He was speaking to her, hoarsely, hysterically, pleading with her; and she knew that the resolution which had held her so long firm against his importunities was weakening; weakening to every jerk of the Adam's apple in his throat.

"Mollie," he pleaded, "I need you. I want you. I can't do without you. I can't wait any longer for you. You must marry me. You must, I tell you, you must."

"Jimmy," she stammered, "Jimmy--please."

"You little idiot!" Suddenly, she grew conscious of an immense anger in him. "You dear, damned little idiot. What good do you think you're doing by refusing to marry me? You're not doing yourself any good. You're not doing me any good. You're not doing your sister any good." Words rushed out of him--faster--faster--always less coherent. "Little fool. Selfish little fool We sha'n't do anybody any good by waiting. Shall we? Answer me, Mollie! Shall we? Shall we do anybody any good?"

Words petered out. He could only strain her to him, crudely, fiercely. She felt her body weakening; felt the inhibitions of a year ebbing like water from, the channels of her mind. His lips sought hers. She yielded her lips to him--yielded herself beaten, to the fierceness of his arms.

"Little idiot, will you marry me?"

"Yes, Jimmy."

Triumphant, he released her; and in that moment his mind, still quivering from the verity of death, knew the verity of love.