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He did not reply for a moment, but Ann could hear his labored breathing.

“I don’t mean to marry,” he said at last.

“Aren’t you apologizing rather unnecessarily?” asked Ann. “You seem to be taking it for granted that I should accept your offer. It isn’t very unusual to visit people who are ill, you know.”

“You’ve been kind in coming, but...”

“But I mustn’t build any high hopes upon your graciously allowing me to call upon you?”

“You’re trying to show me I’m not good enough for you—talking like that.”

“Is that what is at the back of your mind—that I’d think I was condescending in accepting you?”

“Nothing’s at the back of my mind, except that I don’t mean to marry.”

“Do you imagine that I’m likely to be broken-hearted at your decision?”

“Oh, hell!” said Rodney Marsh into his pillow.

Again Ann laughed. Well, to laugh was better than to cry; and if her langhter hurt the man lying there beside the window, she didn’t care.

“I can’t very well decline what isn’t offered, can I?” she said. “But I’m sorry if anything in my manner led you to believe that this explanation was necessary. Let’s forget the whole episode. Three or four men have already told me that they love me. I’ve learnt not to attach much importance to remarks of that sort.” Holmes was returning along the passage. “I hope you’ll like my chicken broth,” she added brightly; and departed with the honors of war. What were they worth, those honors? she asked herself bitterly, as she walked home across the darkening paddocks, beside the silent Holmes.