So that when she spoke of his giving her up, it was not her pride that spoke, but only and truly her fear of doing him a hurt—­by which she meant a hurt in public estimation or repute.  The whole business side of the matter was unknown to her.  She had never speculated on his circumstances, and she was constitutionally and rather proudly indifferent to questions of money.  Vaguely, of course, she knew that the Marshams were rich and that Tallyn was Lady Lucy’s.  Beyond, she had never inquired.

This absence of all self-love in her attitude—­together with her complete ignorance of the calculation in which she was involved—­touched him sharply.  It kept him silent about the money; it seemed impossible to speak of it.  And yet all the time the thought of it clamored—­perhaps increasingly—­in his own mind.

He told her that they must stand firm—­that she must be patient—­that Ferrier would work for them—­and Lady Lucy would come round.  And she, loving him more and more with every word, seeing in him a god of consolation and of chivalry, trusted him wholly.  It was characteristic of her that she did not attempt heroics for the heroics’ sake; there was no idea of renouncing him with a flourish of trumpets.  He said he loved her, and she believed him.  But her heart went on its knees to him in a gratitude that doubled love, even in the midst of her aching bewilderment and pain.

* * * * *

He made her come out with him before luncheon; he talked with her of politics and their future; he did his best to scatter the nightmare in which she moved.

But after awhile he felt his efforts fail.  The scenes that held her mind betrayed themselves in her recurrent pallor, the trembling of her hand in his, her piteous, sudden looks.  She did not talk of her mother, but he could not presently rouse her to talk of anything else; she sat silent in her chair, gazing before her, her slender hands on her knee, dreaming and forlorn.

Then he remembered, and with involuntary relief, that he must get back to town, and to the House, for an important division.  He told her, and she made no protest.  Evidently she was already absorbed in the thought of Sir James Chide’s visit.  But when the time came for him to go she let herself be kissed, and then, as he was moving away, she caught his hand, and held it wildly to her lips.

“Oh, if you hadn’t come!—­if you hadn’t come!” Her tears fell on the hand.

“But I did come!” he said, caressing her.  “I was here last night—­did Mrs. Colwood tell you?  Afterward—­in the dark—­I walked up to the hill, only to look down upon this house, that held you.”

“If I had known,” she murmured, on his breast, “I should have slept.”

He went—­in exaltation; overwhelmed by her charm even in this eclipse of grief, and by the perception of her passion.