“There is evidence enough!” he said, in a changed voice.  “I don’t understand how you can stick up for him.”

“I don’t,” she said sadly, “not if it’s true.  But I don’t want to believe it.  Why should one want to believe the worst, you and I, about anybody?”

Tatham kept an explosive silence for a moment, and then broke out hoarsely: 

“Do you remember, we promised we’d be real friends?—­we’d be really frank with each other?  I’ve kept my bargain.  Are you keeping it?  Isn’t there something you haven’t told me!—­something I ought to know?”

“No, nothing!” cried Lydia, with sudden energy.  “You misunderstand—­you offend me.”

She drew her breath quickly.  There were angry tears in her eyes, hidden by the hood.

A gust of passion swept through Tatham, revealing his manhood to itself.  He stopped, caught her hands, and held them fiercely, imprisoned against his breast.  She must needs look up at him; male strength compelled; they stood motionless a few seconds under the shadows of the trees.

“If there is nothing—­if I do misunderstand—­if I’m wrong in what I think—­for God’s sake listen to me—­give me back my promise.  I can’t—­I can’t keep it!”

He stooped and kissed the fingers he held, once, twice, repeatedly; then turned away, shading his eyes with his hand.

Lydia said, with a little moan: 

“Oh, Harry!—­we’ve broken the spell.”

Tatham recovered himself with difficulty.

“Can’t you—­can’t you ever care for me?” The voice was low, the eyes still hidden.

“We oughtn’t to have been writing and meeting!” cried Lydia, in despair.  “It was foolish, wrong!  I see it now.  I ask your pardon.  We must say good-bye, Harry—­and—­oh!—­oh!—­I’m so sorry I let you—­”

Her voice died away.

In the distance of the lane, a labourer emerged whistling from a gate, with his dog.  Tatham’s hands dropped to his sides; they walked on together as before.  The man passed them with a cheerful good-night.

Tatham spoke slowly.

“Yes—­perhaps—­we’d better not meet.  I can’t—­control myself.  And I should go on offending you.”

A chasm seemed to have opened between them.  They turned and walked back to the gate of the cottage.  When they reached it, Tatham crushed her hand again in his.

“Good-bye!  If ever I can do anything to serve you—­let me know!  Good-bye!—­dearest—­dearest Lydia.”  His voice sank and lingered on the name.  The lamp at the gate showed him that her eyes were swimming in tears.

“You’ll forgive me?” she said, imploringly.

He attempted a laugh, which ended in a sound of pain.  Then he lifted her hand again, kissed it, and was gone; running—­head down—­through the dimness of the lane.

Meanwhile, wrapped in the warm furs of the motor, Felicia and Lady Tatham sped toward Duddon.

Felicia was impenetrably silent at first; and Victoria, who never found it easy to adapt herself to the young, made no effort to rouse her.  Occasionally some passing light showed her the girl’s pallid profile—­slightly frowning brow, and pinched lips—­against the dark lining of the car.  And once or twice as she saw her thus, she was startled by the likeness to Melrose.