She turned and ran out of the room, up another flight of stairs to her own bedroom.  There she fell down on her bed and lay tense and rigid, her face hidden in her hands.  This, then, was what Maurice had meant?  She saw again the wood path, and the tall fern breaking under Maurice’s racquet; she saw the flecks of sunshine on the moss—­she heard him say he “hadn’t played the game with Eleanor.”  Oh, he hadn’t, he hadn’t!  Then she thought of the Dale woman.  The accident on the river.  The stumble at the gate and of Maurice’s child in Lily’s arms.  “Oh, poor Eleanor! poor Eleanor! ...  All the same, she is wicked, to be so cruel to him.  She is taking her revenge.  Jealousy has made her wicked.  But, oh, I wish I hadn’t hurt her in the garden!  But how could Maurice—­that little, common woman!  How could he?” She shook with sobs:  “Poor, poor Eleanor ...”

Eleanor, on her big bed, lay panting with anger and fright. “Now she’ll know I’m hiding something from him!” she thought; “I’ve put myself in her power by having a secret with her; just as I put myself in Lily’s power by asking her not to tell Maurice I had been there.  Well, Edith is in my power!—­because I’ve made her know he’ll never care for her.  And she’ll keep her word; she’ll not tell him about the river.”

The relief of this was so great that she could almost forget her humiliation; she gave herself up to thinking what she herself must do to keep Maurice in ignorance.  “Auntie will be sure to say something.  But he knows how silly she is.  She thought we’d quarreled, and that I had tried ...  I might tell Maurice that?  And he’ll make fun of her, and won’t believe anything she says!  I might say that I went out to—­to see our river, and slipped and got wet, and that Auntie thought we’d quarreled, and that I had ... had tried to ... to—­And he’ll say, ‘What a joke!’ But maybe he’ll say, ‘Why did you go out to Medfield so late?’ And I’ll say, ‘Oh, well, I got delayed.’ ...  Yes, that’s the thing to do.”

So, around and around, her poor, frantic thoughts raced and trampled one another.  When Mrs. Newbolt interrupted them with a tray and some supper, Eleanor, with eyes closed, motioned her away:  “My head aches.  I can’t eat anything.  I’m going to try and get a little sleep.”

By and by, through sheer fatigue, she did drowse, and when the wheels of Maurice’s cab grated against the curb, she was asleep.

Edith, upstairs in her own room, heard the front door close sharply.  “I can’t see him!” she said; “I mustn’t see him.”  But she wanted to see him; she wanted to say to him:  “Maurice, you can make it all up to Eleanor!  You can make her happy. Don’t despair about it—­we’ll all help you make it up to her!” She wanted to say:  " Oh,Maurice, you will conquer.  I know you will!” If she could only see him and tell him these things!  “If I didn’t love him, I could,” she thought....