There was nothing about their attitude or appearance which indicated the change.  Their chairs were so close together that they almost touched.  Her white, ringless hand lay in his.  Through the wide-open window of their tiny sitting-room they looked down upon the river as they had sat and watched it so many evenings before.  Yet the change was unmistakable.  Arnold no longer guessed at it ­he felt it.  The old days of their pleasant comradeship had gone.  There were reserves in everything she said.  Sometimes she shrank from him almost as though he were a stranger.  The eyes that grew bright and still danced with pleasure at his coming, were almost, a moment later, filled with apprehension as she watched him.

“Tell me again,” he begged, “what the doctor really said!  It sounds too good to be true.”

“So I thought,” she agreed, “but I haven’t exaggerated a thing.  He assured me that there was no risk, no pain, and that the cure was certain.  I am to go to the hospital in three weeks’ time.”

“You don’t mind it?”

“Why should I?” she answered.  “The last time,” she continued, “it was in France.  I remember the white stone corridors, the white room, and the surgeons all dressed in white.  Do you know, they say that I shall be out again in a fortnight.”

He nodded.

“I can see you already,” he declared, “with a gold-headed stick and a fascinating limp like Marguerite de Vallieres.”

She smiled very faintly but said nothing.  Somehow, it was hard to make conversation.  Ruth was unusually pale, even for her.  The eyes which followed that line of yellow lights were full of trouble.

“Tell me,” he begged presently, “you have something on your mind, I am sure.  There is nothing you are keeping from me?”

“Have I not enough,” she asked, “to make me anxious?”

“Naturally,” he admitted, “and yet, after all, you have only seen your father once in your life.”

“But I am sure that I could have loved him so much,” she murmured.  “He seems to have come and gone in a dream.”

“This morning’s report was more hopeful,” he reminded her.  “There is every chance that he may live.”

“All the time,” she answered, fervently, “I am praying that he may.  If he treated my mother badly, I am sure that he has suffered.  I can’t quite forget, either,” she went on, “although that seems selfish, that when I come out of the hospital, even if all goes well, I may still be homeless.”

He leaned over her.

“Ruth,” he exclaimed, “what do you mean?”

“You know,” she answered, simply.  “You must know.”

His heart began to beat more quickly.  He turned his head but she was looking away.  He could see only the curve of her long eyelashes.  It seemed to him strange then that he had never noticed the likeness to Sabatini before.  Her mouth, her forehead, the carriage of her head, were all his.  He leaned towards her.  There was something stirring in his heart then, something throbbing there, which seemed to bring with it a cloud of new and bewildering emotions.  The whole world was slipping away.  Something strange had come into the room.

“Ruth,” he whispered, “will you look at me for a moment?”

She kept her head turned away.

“Don’t!” she pleaded.  “Don’t talk to me just now.  I can’t bear it, Arnold.”

“But I have something to say to you,” he persisted.  “I have something new, something I must say, something that has just come to me.  You must listen, Ruth.”

She held out her hand feverishly.

“Please, Arnold,” she begged, “I don’t want to hear ­anything.  I know how kind you are and how generous.  Just now ­I think it is the heat ­be still, please.  I can’t bear anything.”

Her fingers clutched his and yet kept him away.  Every moment he was more confident of this thing which had come to him.  A strange longing was filling his heart.  The old days when he had kissed her carelessly upon the forehead seemed far enough away.  Then, in that brief period of silence which seemed to him too wonderful to break, there came a little tap at the door.  They both turned their heads.

“Come in,” Arnold invited.

There was a moment’s hesitation.  Then the door was opened.  Fenella entered.  Arnold sprang to his feet.

“Mrs. Weatherley!” he exclaimed.

She smiled at him with all her old insolent grace.

“Since when?” she demanded.  “Fenella, if you please.”

She was more simply dressed than usual, in a thin, black gown and black picture hat, and there were shadows under her eyes.  No one could look at her and fail to know that she was suffering.  She came across to Ruth.

“My brother is the dearest thing in life to me,” she said.  “He is all that I have left to me belonging to my own world.  All these days I have spent at his bedside, except when they have sent me away.  This evening I have come to see you.  You are his child, Ruth.”

Ruth turned her head slowly.

“Yes,” she murmured, half fearfully.

“When Arnold brought you to Bourne End,” Fenella continued, “for one moment I looked at you and I wondered.  You seemed, even then, to remind me of some one who had existed in the past.  I know now who it was.  You have something of Andrea’s air, but you are very like your mother, Ruth.”

“You knew her?” Ruth asked.

“Very slightly,” Fenella replied.  “She was a very clever actress and I saw her sometimes upon the stage.  Sometimes I think that Andrea did not treat her well, but that was the way of his world.  Assuredly he never treated her badly, or you and I would not be here together now.”

“I am afraid that you are sorry,” Ruth said, timidly.

Fenella laid her hand almost caressingly upon the girl’s shoulder.

“You need fear nothing of the sort,” she assured her.  “Why should I be sorry?  You are something that will remind me of him, something I shall always be glad to have near me.  You can guess why I have come?”

Ruth made no answer for a moment.  Fenella laughed, a little imperiously.

“You poor child!” she exclaimed.  “You cannot think that since I know the truth I could leave you here for a single second?  We can fetch your clothes any time.  To-night you are coming home with me.”

Ruth gazed at her with straining face.

“Home?” she murmured.

“But naturally,” Fenella replied.  “You are my brother’s child and I am a lonely woman.  Do you think that I could leave you here for a single second?  Arnold has some claims, I know,” she continued.  “He can come and see you sometimes.  Do not be afraid,” she went on, her voice suddenly softening.  “I shall try to be kind to you.  I have been a very selfish person all my life.  I think it will be good for me to have some one to care for.  Arnold, please to go and ring for the lift.  Now that I have two invalids to think about, I must not be away for long.”

He looked at Ruth for a moment.  Then he obeyed her.  When he returned, Ruth was standing up, leaning upon Fenella’s arm.  She held out her other hand to Arnold.

“You will help me down, please?” she begged.

It was a day of new emotions for Arnold.  He was conscious suddenly of a fierce wave of jealousy, of despair.  She was going, and notwithstanding the half pathetic, half appealing smile with which she held out her hands, she was happy to go!  Fenella saw his expression and laughed in his face.

“Arnold looks at me as though I were a thief,” she declared, lightly, “and I have only come to claim my own.  If you behave very nicely, Arnold, you can come and see us just as often as you please.”

It was all over in a few minutes.  The automobile which had been standing in the street below was gone.  Arnold was alone upon the sofa.  The book which she had been reading, her handkerchief, a bowl of flowers which she had arranged, an odd glove, were lying on the table by his side.  But Ruth had gone.  The little room seemed cold and empty.  He gripped the window-sill, and, sitting where they had sat together only a few minutes ago, he looked down at the curving lights.  The old dreams surged up into his brain.  The treasure ship had come indeed, the treasure ship for Ruth.  Almost immediately the egotism of the man rebuked itself.  If, indeed, she were passing into a new and happier life, should he not first, of every one, be thankful? ­first of every one because within that hour he had learned the secret toward which he had been dimly struggling?