Her refreshed attention to this gentleman had not those limits of which Catherine desired, for herself, to be conscious; it lasted long enough to enable her to wait another week before speaking of him again.

It was under the same circumstances that she once more attacked the subject.

She had been sitting with her niece in the evening; only on this occasion, as the night was not so warm, the lamp had been lighted, and Catherine had placed herself near it with a morsel of fancy-work.

Mrs. Penniman went and sat alone for half an hour on the balcony; then she came in, moving vaguely about the room. At last she sank into a seat near Catherine, with clasped hands, and a little look of excitement.

"Shall you be angry if I speak to you again about HIM?" she asked.

Catherine looked up at her quietly.

"Who is HE?"

"He whom you once loved."

"I shall not be angry, but I shall not like it."

"He sent you a message," said Mrs. Penniman.

"I promised him to deliver it, and I must keep my promise."

In all these years Catherine had had time to forget how little she had to thank her aunt for in the season of her misery; she had long ago forgiven Mrs. Penniman for taking too much upon herself.

But for a moment this attitude of interposition and disinterestedness, this carrying of messages and redeeming of promises, brought back the sense that her companion was a dangerous woman.

She had said she would not be angry; but for an instant she felt sore.

"I don't care what you do with your promise!" she answered.

Mrs. Penniman, however, with her high conception of the sanctity of pledges, carried her point.

"I have gone too far to retreat," she said, though precisely what this meant she was not at pains to explain.

"Mr. Townsend wishes most particularly to see you, Catherine; he believes that if you knew how much, and why, he wishes it, you would consent to do so."

"There can be no reason," said Catherine; "no good reason."

"His happiness depends upon it.

Is not that a good reason?" asked Mrs. Penniman impressively.

"Not for me.

My happiness does not."

"I think you will be happier after you have seen him.

He is going away again--going to resume his wanderings.

It is a very lonely, restless, joyless life.

Before he goes he wishes to speak to you; it is a fixed idea with him--he is always thinking of it.

He has something very important to say to you.

He believes that you never understood him--that you never judged him rightly, and the belief has always weighed upon him terribly.

He wishes to justify himself; he believes that in a very few words he could do so.

He wishes to meet you as a friend."

Catherine listened to this wonderful speech without pausing in her work; she had now had several days to accustom herself to think of Morris Townsend again as an actuality.

When it was over she said simply, "Please say to Mr. Townsend that I wish he would leave me alone."

She had hardly spoken when a sharp, firm ring at the door vibrated through the summer night.

Catherine looked up at the clock; it marked a quarter-past nine--a very late hour for visitors, especially in the empty condition of the town.

Mrs. Penniman at the same moment gave a little start, and then Catherine's eyes turned quickly to her aunt.

They met Mrs. Penniman's and sounded them for a moment, sharply.

Mrs. Penniman was blushing; her look was a conscious one; it seemed to confess something.

Catherine guessed its meaning, and rose quickly from her chair.

"Aunt Penniman," she said, in a tone that scared her companion, "have you taken the LIBERTY . . . ?"

"My dearest Catherine," stammered Mrs. Penniman, "just wait till you see him!"

Catherine had frightened her aunt, but she was also frightened herself; she was on the point of rushing to give orders to the servant, who was passing to the door, to admit no one; but the fear of meeting her visitor checked her.

"Mr. Morris Townsend."

This was what she heard, vaguely but recognisably articulated by the domestic, while she hesitated.

She had her back turned to the door of the parlour, and for some moments she kept it turned, feeling that he had come in.

He had not spoken, however, and at last she faced about.

Then she saw a gentleman standing in the middle of the room, from which her aunt had discreetly retired.

She would never have known him.

He was forty-five years old, and his figure was not that of the straight, slim young man she remembered. But it was a very fine person, and a fair and lustrous beard, spreading itself upon a well-presented chest, contributed to its effect.

After a moment Catherine recognised the upper half of the face, which, though her visitor's clustering locks had grown thin, was still remarkably handsome.

He stood in a deeply deferential attitude, with his eyes on her face.

"I have ventured--I have ventured," he said; and then he paused, looking about him, as if he expected her to ask him to sit down.

It was the old voice, but it had not the old charm.

Catherine, for a minute, was conscious of a distinct determination not to invite him to take a seat.

Why had he come?

It was wrong for him to come.

Morris was embarrassed, but Catherine gave him no help.

It was not that she was glad of his embarrassment; on the contrary, it excited all her own liabilities of this kind, and gave her great pain.

But how could she welcome him when she felt so vividly that he ought not to have come?

"I wanted so much--I was determined," Morris went on.

But he stopped again; it was not easy.

Catherine still said nothing, and he may well have recalled with apprehension her ancient faculty of silence.

She continued to look at him, however, and as she did so she made the strangest observation.

It seemed to be he, and yet not he; it was the man who had been everything, and yet this person was nothing. How long ago it was--how old she had grown--how much she had lived! She had lived on something that was connected with HIM, and she had consumed it in doing so.

This person did not look unhappy.

He was fair and well-preserved, perfectly dressed, mature and complete.

As Catherine looked at him, the story of his life defined itself in his eyes; he had made himself comfortable, and he had never been caught. But even while her perception opened itself to this, she had no desire to catch him; h............