The drawing-room was empty except for the figure of Gwendolen Scott. Her slim length was in a great easy-chair, on the arms of which she was resting her hands, while she turned her head from side to side like a bird that anticipates the approach of enemies.

Mrs. Dashwood and Lady Dashwood had gone upstairs, and, to her astonishment, when she prepared to follow them, Lady Dashwood had quietly made her wait behind for the Warden!

The command, for it seemed almost like a command, came with startling abruptness. So Lady Dashwood knew all about it! She must have talked it over with the Warden, and now she was arranging it as if the Warden couldn't act without her! But the annoyance that Gwen felt at this proof of Lady Dashwood's power was swallowed up in the sense of a great victory, the prize was won! She was going to be really engaged at last! All the waiting and the bother was over!

She was ready for him, at least as ready as she could be. She was glad she had got on her white frock; on the whole, she preferred it to the others. Even Louise, who never said anything nice, said that it suited her.

When would he come? And when he did come, what would he do, what would he say?

Would he come in quietly and slowly as he had done last night, looking, oh, so strong, so capable of driving ghosts away, fears away? She would never be afraid of anything in his presence, except perhaps of himself! Here he was!

He came in, shut the door behind him, and advanced towards her. She couldn't help watching him.

"You're quite alone," he said, and he came and stood by the hearth under the portrait and leaned his hand on the mantelshelf.

"Yes," said Gwen, blushing violently. "Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood have gone. Lady Dashwood said I was to stay up!"

"Thank you," said the Warden.

Gwen looked up at him wistfully.

"You wrote me a letter," he began, "and from it I gather that you have been thinking over what I said the other evening."

"Yes," said Gwen; "I've been so—bothered. Oh, that's the wrong word—I mean——"

"You have thought it over quietly and seriously?" said the Warden.

Gwen's eyes flickered. "Yes," she said; and then, as he seemed to expect her to say more, she added:

"I don't know whether you meant——" and here she stopped dead.

"Between us there must be absolute sincerity," he said.

Gwen felt a qualm. Did absolute sincerity mean that she would have to tell about the—the umbrella that she was going to get?

"Yes," she said, "I like sincerity; it's right, isn't it?"

He made no answer. She looked again at him wistfully.

"Suppose you tell me," he said gently, "what you yourself think of your mother's letter in which she speaks to you with affection and pride, and even regrets that she will lose you. Her letter conveys the idea that you are loved and wanted." He put emphasis on the "are."

"It was a nice letter," said Gwen, thinking hard as she spoke. "But you see we haven't got any home now," she went on. "Mother stays about with people. It is hard lines, but she is so sporting."

"Yes," said the Warden, "and," he said, as if to assist her to complete the picture, "yet she wants you!" As he spoke his eyes narrowed and his breath was arrested for a moment.

"Oh no," said Gwen, eagerly. "She doesn't want to prevent—me—me marrying. You see she can't have me much, it's—it's difficult in other people's houses—at least it sometimes is—just now especially."

"Thank you," said the Warden, "I understand." He sighed and moved slightly from his former position. "You mean that she wants you very much, but that she can't afford to give you a home."

"Yes," said Gwen, with relief. The way was being made very clear to her. She was telling "the truth" and he was helping her so kindly. "You see mother couldn't stand a small house and servant bothers. It's been such hard luck on her, that father left nothing like what she thought he had got. Mother has been so plucky, she really has."

"I see," said the Warden. "Then your mother's letter has your approval?"

Her approval! Yes, of course; it was simply topping of her mother to have written in the way she did.

"It was good of mother," she said. If it hadn't been for her mother she would not have known what to do.

The Warden moved his hand away from the mantelshelf and now stood with his back against it, away from the blaze of the fire.

"You have never mentioned, in my presence," he said, "what you think about the work that most girls of your age are doing for the war."

"Oh yes," said Gwen, eagerly; "mother is so keen about that. She does do such a lot herself, and she took me away from school a fortnight before time was up to go to a hospital for three months' training."

"And you are having a holiday and want to go on," suggested the Warden.

"No; mother thought I had better have a change. You can't think how horrid the matron was to me—she had favourites, worse luck; and now mother is looking—has been"—Gwen corrected herself sharply—"for something for me to do that would be more suitable, but the difficulty is to find anything really nice."

The Warden meditated. "Yes," he said.

Gwen continued to look at him, her face full of questioning.

"You have been thinking whether you should trust yourself to me," he said very gravely, "and whether you could face the responsibility and the cares of a house, a position, like that of a Warden's wife?"

"Oh yes," said Gwen.

"You think that you understand them?" he asked.

"Oh yes," said Gwen. "At least, I would try; I would do my best."

"There is nothing very amusing in my manner of life; in fact, I should describe it as—solemn. The business," he continued, "of a Warden is to ward his college. His wife's business is to assist him."

"I should simply love that," said Gwen. "I should really! I'm not clever, I know, but I would try my best, and—I'm so—afraid of you," she said with a gulp of emotion, "and admire you so awfully!"

The Warden's face hardened a little, but Gwen did not observe it; all she saw and knew was that the dismal part of the interview was over, for he accepted this outburst as a definite reply on her part to his offer. She was so glad she had said just what she had said. It seemed to be all right.

"That is your decision?" he said, only he did not move towards her. He stood there, standing with his back to the projection of the fireplace, his head on a level with the frame of the portrait. The two faces, of the present Warden of the year 1916 and the Warden of the eighteenth century, made a striking contrast. Both men had no lack of physical beauty, but the one had discovered the "rights" of man, and therefore of a Warden, and the other had discovered the "duties" of men, including Wardens.

He stood there and did not approach her. He was hesitating.

He could, if he wished it, exercise his power over her and make her answer "No." He could make her shrink away from him, or even deny that she had wished for an interview. And he could do this safely, for Gwendolen herself was ignorant of the fact that he had on the previous night exercised any influence over her except that of argument. She would have no suspicion that he was tampering with her will for his own purposes. He could extricate himself now and at this moment. Now, while she was still waiting for him to tell her whether he would marry her.

The temptation was a heavy one. It was heavy, although he knew from the first that it was one which he could and would resist. There was no real question about it.

He stood there by the hearth, a free man still. In a moment he would be bound hand and foot.

Still, come what may, he must satisfy his honour. He must satisfy his honour at any price.

Gwendolen saw that he did not move and she became suddenly alarmed. Didn't he mean to keep his promise after all? Had he taken a dislike to her?

"Have I offended you?" she asked humbly. "You're not pleased with me. Oh, Dr. Middleton, you do make me so afraid!" She got up from her chair, looking very pale. "You've been so awfully kind and good to me, but you make me frightened!" She held out her hands to him and turned her face away, as if to hide it from him. "Oh, do be kind!" she pleaded.

He was looking at her with profound attention, but the tenseness of his eyes had relaxed. Here was this girl. Foolish she might be naturally, badly brought up she certainly was, but she was utterly alone in the world. He must train her. He must oblige her to walk in the path he had laid out for her. She, too, must become a servant of the College. He willed it!

"I hope, Gwendolen," he said gently, "that I shall never be anything but kind to you. But do you realise that if you are my wife, you will have to live, not for pleasure or ease; and you will have not merely to control yourself, but learn to control other people? This may sound hard. Does it sound hard?"

Oh, she would try her very best. She would do whatever he told her to do. Just whatever he told her!

Whatever he told her to do! What an unending task he had undertaken of telling her what to do! He must never relax his will or his attention from her. It would be no marriage for him; it would be a heavy responsibility. But at least the College should not suffer! Was he sure of that? He must see that it did not suffer. If he failed, he must resign. His promise to her was not to love her. He had never spoken of love. He had offered her a home, and he must give her a home.

He braced himself up with a supreme effort and went towards her, taking her into his arms and kissing her brow and cheeks, and then, releasing himself from her clinging arms, he said—

"Go now, Gwendolen. Go to bed. I have work to do."

"Are you—is it——" she stammered.

"We are engaged, if that is what you mean," he said.

"Oh, Dr. Middleton!" she exclaimed. "And may I write to my mother?"

The Warden did not answer for a moment.

That was another burden, Gwendolen's mother! The Warden's face became hard. But he thought he knew how he should deal with Gwendolen's mother; he should begin from the very first.

"Yes," he said; "but as to her coming here—she mentions it in her letter—Lady Dashwood will decide about that. I don't know what her plans are."

Gwendolen looked disappointed. "And I may talk to Lady Dashwood, to Mrs. Dashwood, and anybody about our engagement?" she asked.

"Certainly," he said, but he spoke stiffly.

"And—and—" said the girl, following him to the door and stretching out her hand towards his arm as she walked but not touching it,—"shall I see you to-morrow morning before you go to town?"

The Warden felt as if he had been dealt a light but acutely painful blow.

Shall I see you to-morrow morning? Already she was claiming her right over him, her right to see him, to know of his movements. He had for many years been the servant of the College. He had given the College his entire allegiance, but he had also been its master. He had been the strong man among weaker men, and, as all men of his type are, he had been alone, uninterfered with, rather remote in matters concerning his private personal life. And now this mere child demanded explanations of him. It was a bitter moment for his pride and independence. However strictly he might bind his wife to his will, his own freedom had gone; he was no longer the man he had been. If this simple question, "Shall I see you to-morrow morning?" tortured his self-respect, how would he be able to bear what was coming upon him day by day? He had to bear it. That was the only answer to the question!

"I am starting early," he said. "But I shall be back on Saturday, some time in the afternoon probably."

Gwendolen's brain was in a whirl. Her desire had been consummated. The Warden was hers, but, somehow, he was not quite what he had been on that Monday evening. He was cold, at least rather cold. Still he was hers; that was fixed.

She waited for a moment to see if he meant to kiss her again. He did not mean to, he held out his hand and smiled a little.

She kissed his hand. "I shall long for you to come back," she said, and then ran out, leaving him alone to return to his desk with a heart sick and empty.

"There can be no cohesion, no progress in the world, no hope for the future of man, if men break their word; if there is no such thing as inviolable honour," the Warden said to himself, just as he had said before. "After all, as long as honour is left, one has a right to live, to struggle on, to endure."