"My heart knows it," she said brokenly. "But my mind isn't sure. Do you
know, Jack, I almost proposed to him because I felt so sure he cared.
And he--he just looked beyond me, as if--as if he didn't even hear."
"He thinks he isn't good enough for you," Babbacombe said, with an
effort. "I don't think he will ever be persuaded to act otherwise. He
seems to consider himself hopelessly handicapped."
"What makes you say that?" whispered Cynthia.
He had not meant to tell her. It was against his will that he did so;
but he felt impelled to do it. For her peace of mind it seemed
imperative that she should understand.
And so, in a few words, he told her of West's abortive attempt to plunge
a second time into the black depths from which he had so recently
escaped, of the man's absolutely selfless devotion, of his rigid refusal
to suffer even her love for him to move him from this attitude.
Cynthia listened with her bright eyes fixed unswervingly upon
Babbacombe's face. She made no comment of any sort when he ended. She
only pressed his hand.
He remained with her for some time, and when he got up to go at length,
it was with manifest reluctance. He lingered beside her after he had
spoken his farewell, as though he still had something to say.
"You will come again soon," said Cynthia.
"To-morrow," he answered. "And--Cynthia, there is just one thing I want
to say.
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