courage?"

"That's what you were to show me."

He still, however, wondered. "But doesn't the man of courage know what
he's afraid of--or not afraid of? I don't know _that_, you see. I don't
focus it. I can't name it. I only know I'm exposed."

"Yes, but exposed--how shall I say?--so directly. So intimately. That's
surely enough."

"Enough to make you feel then--as what we may call the end and the upshot
of our watch--that I'm not afraid?"

"You're not afraid. But it isn't," she said, "the end of our watch. That
is it isn't the end of yours. You've everything still to see."

"Then why haven't you?" he asked. He had had, all along, to-day, the
sense of her keeping something back, and he still had it. As this was
his first impression of that it quite made a date. The case was the more
marked as she didn't at first answer; which in turn made him go on. "You
know something I don't." Then his voice, for that of a man of courage,
trembled a little. "You know what's to happen." Her silence, with the
face she showed, was almost a confession--it made him sure. "You know,
and you're afraid to tell me. It's so bad that you're afraid I'll find
out."

All this might be true, for she did look as if, unexpectedly to her, he
had crossed some mystic line that she had secretly drawn round her. Yet
she might, after all, not have worried; and the real climax was that he