“Very well,” says Rylton slowly.  “Let it be so.  Remember always, however,” looking fixedly at her, “that it was you who insisted on it.”

“I shall remember,” says Tita.

She turns and walks quickly on the path that leads to the house.  Rylton turns to accompany her.  But she, stopping short, looks up at him with a frowning brow.

“We have been talking about ways,” says she.  “This,” with a little significant gesture to the right, “is my way.”

He lifts his brows and laughs, a very sad and dismal laugh, however.

“And therefore not mine,” says he.  “You are right so far.  I meant to go on to Upsall Farm, but I should like to see you safely back to the avenue, at all events—­if you will allow me?”

"No!" Tita has turned upon him like a little fury.  All her rage and grief and misery has at last overpowered her.  “I shall not allow you!  I shall go nowhere with you!  Our ways, as you say, are separate.”

“As I say——­”

“It doesn’t matter,” says she vehemently; “words are nothing.  There is only meaning left, and what I mean is that I want never to go anywhere with you again.”

“As you will, of course,” says he, drawing back.  Evidently it is to be war to the knife.

He could have laughed at himself as he leans back against a huge oak-tree and lights a cigar.  Truly he is no Don Juan!  The woman he loved did not love him to any measurable extent; the woman he married cares for him even less!

A very rage of anger against Tita is filling his breast, but now, standing here in the cold soft shades of the silent wood, his anger gives place to thought.  By what right is he angry with her?  By what right does he upbraid her?  She knows all—­everything.  His mother had seen to that.  Yes, his wife knows——­

And yet, after all, what is there to condemn him for?  What man under heaven has been so scrupulous, so careful as he?  There had been that one night at the Warbeck’s dance—­but beyond that, never by word or look had he been unfaithful!

He is beginning almost to pride himself upon his good behaviour, when all at once it comes to him that it has been easy to be faithful, that there has been no trouble at all about being scrupulous.

It is like a dagger in his heart.  Is it all at the end then?  Must it be regarded as a thing that was told—­that old, sweet story!  Dead, withered, with the life, the meaning, gone from it.  And if so, what remains?

Nothing but the face of a small, angry little girl defying him—­defying him always.

Pouf!  He thrusts it from him.  He lights another cigar.  Again the old anger breaks out.  Tita’s words come back to him.  Plainly she would be as glad to get rid of him as he——­ She had spoken of her own way.  Why not let her go that way?  It leads to her cousin.  All the finger-posts point in that direction.  Well——­ If so——­ There might be a divorce, and a divorce would mean marriage with Marian, and——­