The thin, intellectual face and lined brow had resumed the expression that was familiar to Beryl.

It was an expression of fatigue--not physical now, for he had clearly recovered his health, but moral; as though the man behind it were worn out by some hidden debate with his own mind, into which he fell perpetually, when left to himself.

It was the look which divided him from her.
'Yes,' she said slowly, 'I've been thinking a great deal.' She stopped; then lifting her eyes, which were grey and fringed with dark lashes--beautiful eyes, timid yet passionately honest--she said, 'You'd better give me up, Aubrey!' He made a restless movement, then took her hands and raised them to his lips.
'I don't feel like it!' he said, smiling.

'Tell me what you mean.' She looked down, plucking at the fringed belt of her sports coat.
Her lips trembled a little.
'I don't think, Aubrey, I can make you happy! I've been feeling often--that I don't seem to make much difference to you.

And now this is very serious--giving up Mannering.