Yet, although she shuddered, she could not drag her hand away.  He was her tamer now:  and as he spoke soothingly and she grew quieter, a new faith awoke in her, yet a faith as old as woman; the false imperishable faith that by giving all she binds a man as he has bound her.

With a cry she let her brow sink till it touched his breast.  Then, straightening herself, she gripped him by both shoulders and stared close into his eyes—­clinging to him as she had clung that evening on the frozen canal, but with a face how different!

“But you mean no harm?  You told me a falsehood”—­here he blinked, but she went on, her eyes devouring his—­“but you told it in kindness?  Say you mean no harm to me—­you will get this licence soon.  How soon?  Do not be angry—­ah, see how I humble myself to you!  You mean honestly:  yes, yes, but say it! how soon?”

“Hetty, I’ll be honest with you.  One cannot get a licence in a day.”

“And I will be patient—­so patient!  Only we must leave this horrible house:  you must find me a lodging where I can be alone.”

“Why, what’s the matter with this house?” He tried a laugh, and the result betrayed him.

Her body stiffened again.  “When did you apply for the licence?” she demanded.  “How long since?”

He tried to shuffle.  “But answer me!” she insisted, thrusting him away.  And then, after a pause and very slowly, “You have not applied at all,” she said.  “You are lying again. . . .  God forgive you.”  She drew herself up and for an instant he thought she was going to strike him; but she only shivered.  “I must go home.”

“Home!” he echoed.

“And whither but home?”—­with a loathing look around her.

“You will not dare.”

In all this pitiful scene was nothing so pitiful as the pride in which she drew herself up and towered over the man who had abased her.  Yet her voice was quiet.  “That you cannot understand is worst of all.  I feared sin too little:  but I can face the consequences.  I fear them less than—­than—­”

A look around her completed the sentence eloquently enough.  As she stood with her hand on the door-latch that look travelled around the sordid room and rested finally on him as a piece of it.  Then the latch clicked, and she was gone.

She stood in the passage by the foot of the staircase.  Half-way up the servant girl was stooping over a stair-rod, pretending to clean it.  Hetty’s wits were clear.  She reflected a moment, and mounted steadily to her room, crammed her poor trifles into her satchel, and came down again with a face of ice.

The girl drew aside, watching her intently.  But—­on a sudden impulse—­“Miss—­” she said.

“I beg your pardon!” Hetty paused.

“I wouldn’t be in a hurry, miss.  You can master him, if you try—­you and the parson:  and the worst of ’em’s better than none.  And you that pretty, too!”