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to understand something or other about his own desires
hitherto undefined by him； the source of his difficulty
with Katharine。 The wish to hurt her； which had
urged him to begin； had pletely left him； and he felt
that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be
sure。 He must take his time。 There were so many things
that he could not say without the greatest difficulty—
that name； for example； Cassandra。 Nor could he move
his eyes from a certain spot； a fiery glen surrounded by
high mountains； in the heart of the coals。 He waited in
suspense for Katharine to continue。 She had said that he
might be very happy with some one he loved in that way。
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last with you；” she resumed。
“I can imagine a certain sort of person—” she
paused； she was aware that he was listening with the
greatest intentness； and that his formality was merely
the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort。 There was
some person then—some woman—who could it be？
Cassandra？ Ah； possibly—
“A person；” she added； speaking in the most matterof
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fact tone she could mand； “like Cassandra Otway； for
instance。 Cassandra is the most interesting of the
Otways—with the exception of Henry。 Even so； I like
Cassandra better。 She has more than mere cleverness。 She
is a character—a person by herself。”
“Those dreadful insects！” burst from William； with a
nervous laugh； and a little spasm went through him as
Katharine noticed。 It was Cassandra then。 Automatically
and dully she replied； “You could insist that she confined
herself to—to—something else… 。 But she cares for
music； I believe she writes poetry； and there can be no
doubt that she has a peculiar charm—”
She ceased； as if defining to herself this peculiar charm。
After a moment’s silence William jerked out：
“I thought her affectionate？”
“Extremely affectionate。 She worships Henry。 When you
think what a house that is—Uncle Francis always in one
mood or another—”
“Dear； dear； dear；” William muttered。
“And you have so much in mon。”
“My dear Katharine！” William exclaimed； flinging him
self back in his chair； and uprooting his eyes from the
spot in the fire。 “I really don’t know what we’re talking
about… 。 I assure you… 。”
He was covered with an extreme confusion。
He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between
the pages of Gulliver； opened the book； and ran his eye
down the list of chapters； as though he were about to
select the one most suitable for reading aloud。 As
Katharine watched him； she was seized with preliminary
symptoms of his own panic。 At the same time she was
convinced that； should he find the right page； take out
his spectacles； clear his throat； and open his lips； a chance
that would never e again in all their lives would be
lost to them both。
“We’re talking about things that interest us both very
much；” she said。 “Shan’t we go on talking； and leave
Swift for another time？ I don’t feel in the mood for Swift；
and it’s a pity to read any one when that’s the case—
particularly Swift。”
The presence of wise literary speculation； as she calculated；
restored William’s confidence in his security； and
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he replaced the book in the bookcase； keeping his back
turned to her as he did so； and taking advantage of this
circumstance to summon his thoughts together。
But a second of introspection had the alarming result
of showing him that his mind； when looked at from within；
was no longer familiar ground。 He felt； that is to say；
what he had never consciously felt before； he was revealed
to himself as other than he was wont to think
him； he was afloat upon a sea of unknown and tumultuous
possibilities。 He paced once up and down the room；
and then flung himself impetuously into the chair by
Katharine’s side。 He had never felt anything like this before；
he put himself entirely into her hands； he cast off
all responsibility。 He very nearly exclaimed aloud：
“You’ve stirred up all these odious and violent emotions；
and now you must do the best you can with them。”
Her near presence； however； had a calming and reassuring
effect upon his agitation； and he was conscious only
of an implicit trust that； somehow； he was safe with her；
that she would see him through； find out what it was
that he wanted； and procure it for him。
“I wish to do whatever you tell me to do；” he said。 “I
put myself entirely in your hands； Katharine。”
“You must try to tell me what you feel；” she said。
“My dear； I feel a thousand things every second。 I don’t
know； I’m sure； what I feel。 That afternoon on the heath—
it was then—then—” He broke off； he did not tell her
what had happened then。 “Your ghastly good sense； as
usual； has convinced me—for the moment—but what the
truth is； Heaven only knows！” he exclaimed。
“Isn’t it the truth that you are； or might be； in love
with Cassandra？” she said gently。
William bowed his head。 After a moment’s silence he
murmured：
“I believe you’re right； Katharine。”
She sighed； involuntarily。 She had been hoping all this
time； with an intensity that increased second by second
against the current of her words； that it would not in the
end e to this。 After a moment of surprising anguish；
she summoned her courage to tell him how she wished
only that she might help him； and had framed the first
words of her speech when a knock； terrific and startling
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to people in their overwrought condition； sounded upon
the door。
“Katharine； I worship you；” he urged； half in a whisper。
“Yes；” she replied； withdrawing with a little shiver； “but
you must open the door。”
CHAPTER XXIII
When Ralph Denham entered the room and saw Katharine
seated with her back to him； he was conscious of a change
in the grade of the atmosphere such as a traveler meets
with sometimes upon the roads； particularly after sunset；
when； without warning； he runs from clammy chill to