“And so the vicar will find you in a pretty dress,” he said at last.

“No, sir.”

“But you promised Mrs. Leadbatter to—­”

“I promised to buy a dress with her sovereign.  But I shan’t be here when the vicar comes.  He can’t come till the afternoon.”

“Why, where will you be?” he said, his heart beginning to beat fast.

“With you,” she replied, with a faint accent of surprise.

He steadied himself against the mantel-piece.

“But—­” he began, and ended, “is that honest?”

He dimly descried her lips pouting.  “We can always send her another when we have one,” she said.

He stood there, dumb, glad of the darkness.

“I must go down now,” she said.  “I mustn’t stay long.”

“Why?” he articulated.

“Rosie,” she replied briefly.

“What about Rosie?”

“She watches me—­ever since she came.  Don’t you understand?”

This time he was the dullard.  He felt an extra quiver of repugnance for Rosie, but said nothing, while Mary Ann briskly lit the gas, and threw some coals on the decaying fire.  He was pleased she was going down; he was suffocating; he did not know what to say to her.  And yet, as she was disappearing through the doorway, he had a sudden feeling things couldn’t be allowed to remain an instant in this impossible position.

“Mary Ann!” he cried.

“Yessir.”

She turned back—­her face wore merely the expectant expression of a summoned servant.  The childishness of her behaviour confused him, irritated him.

“Are you foolish?” he cried suddenly; half regretting the phrase the instant he had uttered it.

Her lip twitched.

“No, Mr. Lancelot!” she faltered.

“But you talk as if you were,” he said less roughly.  “You mustn’t run away from the vicar just when he is going to take you to the lawyer’s to certify who you are, and see that you get your money.”

“But I don’t want to go with the vicar—­I want to go with you.  You said you would take me with you.”  She was almost in tears now.

“Yes—­but don’t you—­don’t you understand that—­that,” he stammered; then, temporising, “but I can wait.”

“Can’t the vicar wait?” said Mary Ann.  He had never known her show such initiative.

He saw that it was hopeless—­that the money had made no more dint upon her consciousness than some vague dream, that her whole being was set towards the new life with him, and shrank in horror from the menace of the vicar’s withdrawal of her in the opposite direction.  If joy and redemption had not already lain in the one quarter, the advantages of the other might have been more palpably alluring.  As it was, her consciousness was “full up” in the matter, so to speak.  He saw that he must tell her plain and plump, startle her out of her simple confidence.

“Listen to me, Mary Ann.”