And because she was still promised to another man, he could not, as he would, hold out his arms to her and take her to his breast and comfort her.  Instead, he took her hand and held it tightly for a time, then lifted it to his lips and went, leaving her; yet went with a full hope for the future in his heart, for he had wrung from her the confession that she loved him.

In the hall a girl, sitting there waiting patiently, looked at him with great dark eyes, yet he never saw her.  A servant let him out, and then the servant came back to her.  “Tell Miss Meredyth that I am here waiting to see her,” Ellice said.

And as the man went away she wondered what had brought Hugh Alston here to-day, why he should be here so long with Joan when she could so distinctly remember Joan’s lack of recognition of him in the village.  She could also remember the sight of them that night, their dark shapes against the yellow glow of the lamplight in Mrs. Bonner’s cottage.

How would she find Joan? she wondered.  Softened, perhaps even confused, some of her coldness shaken, some of her self-possession gone?  But no, Joan held out a hand in greeting to her.

“I did not know that you were here, Miss Brand,” she said.  “Have you not seen Mrs. Everard?”

“I have seen her,” Ellice said, “but I didn’t come here to-day to see her.  I came to see you.”

“To see me?” Joan smiled—­a conventional smile.  “You will sit down, won’t you?  Is it anything that I can do?  It is not, I hope, that Mr. Everard is ill?”

“And—­and if he were,” the girl cried, “would you care?”

Joan started, her face grew colder.

“I do not understand.”

“Yes, you—­you do.  Why are you marrying him?  Why are you taking him from me when—­”

“Taking him from—­you?” Joan’s voice was like ice water on flames of fire.  Ellice was silent.

“Miss Meredyth, I came here to-day to see you, to speak to you, to—­to open my heart to you.”  Her lips trembled.  “Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps I have no right to be here to say what I am going to say.  I told Connie; she—­she knows that I have come here, and she knows why.”

“Yes; go on.”

“If—­if you loved him it would be different.  I would not dare think of saying anything then.  I think I would be glad.  I could, at any rate, be reconciled to it, because it would be for his happiness.  If you loved him—­but you don’t—­you don’t!  He is a man who could not live without love.  It is part of his life.  He might think, might believe that he would be content to take you because you are lovely and—­and good and clever, and all those things that I am not, even though you do not love him, but the time would come when his heart would ache for the love you withheld.  Oh, Joan—­Joan, forgive me—­forgive me, but I must speak.  I think you would if you were in my place!”

The cold bitterness was passing slowly from Joan’s face.  There came a tinge of colour into her cheeks; her eyes that watched the girl grew softer and more tender.