But it would be Mavis, and not Norah, who would look him in the face—­and she would read the truth there.  She would see it staring at her in his shifting eyes, his slack lip, and his weak frown.  Her first glance at him would be loyal and frank, just an eager flash of love and confidence, seeming to say, “Be quick, Will, and put your foot on this viper that we’ve both of us warmed, and that is trying to bite me;” then she would turn pale, avert her head, and drop upon a chair.  And for why?  Because she had seen the nauseating truth, and her heart was almost broken.

Then he suddenly understood that there was no real danger of all this.  It was only his own sense of guilt that unnerved him.  Nothing had happened in the wood.  If he behaved quietly and sensibly, he would be altogether safe, and Mavis would never guess.  Truly all that he had to conceal was that he had been stopped on the very brink of his sin, that but for a startling interference, an almost miraculous interference, the wicked thoughts would infallibly have found their outlet in wicked deeds.

If Norah said he took her on his knees and kissed her, Mavis would think nothing of it—­would not even think it undignified; would merely take as one more evidence of his kindly nature the fact that, instead of upbraiding the silly child, he had embraced her.  If the girl howled and said she did not want to go because she was fond of him, Mavis would think nothing of that either.  Mavis knew it already, and had never thought anything of it.

Therefore if he did not betray himself, the girl could not betray him.  All that was required of him was just to maintain an ordinary air of ingenuousness.  He had done enough acting in his life to be at home when dissimulating.  He must do a little more successful acting now.

After a minute or so he went down-stairs, and was outwardly staid and calm, looking as he had looked on hundreds of mornings:  the good kind father of a household, whose only care is the happiness and welfare of those who are dependent on him.

Directly he entered the breakfast-room Norah ran sobbing to him and clung to his hand.

“She is sending me away.  Oh, don’t let her do it.  You promised you wouldn’t.  Oh, why do you let her do it?”

“This is my plan, Norah,” he said gently; “not Mrs. Dale’s.  I wish it—­and I ask you not to make a fuss.”

“I’ve told her,” said Mavis, “that it’s only for her own good; and that she’ll be back here in a fortnight or three weeks.  But she seems to think we want to be rid of her forever.”

“No, no,” said Dale.  “Nothing of the sort.  It’s merely for the good of your health—­and not in any way as a punishment for your having been rather disobedient.”

“Why, I’m sure,” said Mavis cheerfully, “most girls would jump for joy at the chance.  You’ll enjoy yourself, and have all a happy time.”

“No, I shan’t,” Norah cried.  “I shall be miserable;” and she looked up at Dale despairingly.  “Do you promise I’m really and truly to come back?”