“You may do as you like.”

She moved slowly along the road, and Acton went with her.  Presently he said, “If I had done as I liked I would have come to see you several times.”

“Is that invented?” asked Eugenia.

“No, that is natural.  I stayed away because”—­

“Ah, here comes the reason, then!”

“Because I wanted to think about you.”

“Because you wanted to lie down!” said the Baroness.  “I have seen you lie down—­almost—­in my drawing-room.”

Acton stopped in the road, with a movement which seemed to beg her to linger a little.  She paused, and he looked at her awhile; he thought her very charming.  “You are jesting,” he said; “but if you are really going away it is very serious.”

“If I stay,” and she gave a little laugh, “it is more serious still!”

“When shall you go?”

“As soon as possible.”

“And why?”

“Why should I stay?”

“Because we all admire you so.”

“That is not a reason.  I am admired also in Europe.”  And she began to walk homeward again.

“What could I say to keep you?” asked Acton.  He wanted to keep her, and it was a fact that he had been thinking of her for a week.  He was in love with her now; he was conscious of that, or he thought he was; and the only question with him was whether he could trust her.

“What you can say to keep me?” she repeated.  “As I want very much to go it is not in my interest to tell you.  Besides, I can’t imagine.”

He went on with her in silence; he was much more affected by what she had told him than appeared.  Ever since that evening of his return from Newport her image had had a terrible power to trouble him.  What Clifford Wentworth had told him—­that had affected him, too, in an adverse sense; but it had not liberated him from the discomfort of a charm of which his intelligence was impatient.  “She is not honest, she is not honest,” he kept murmuring to himself.  That is what he had been saying to the summer sky, ten minutes before.  Unfortunately, he was unable to say it finally, definitively; and now that he was near her it seemed to matter wonderfully little.  “She is a woman who will lie,” he had said to himself.  Now, as he went along, he reminded himself of this observation; but it failed to frighten him as it had done before.  He almost wished he could make her lie and then convict her of it, so that he might see how he should like that.  He kept thinking of this as he walked by her side, while she moved forward with her light, graceful dignity.  He had sat with her before; he had driven with her; but he had never walked with her.

“By Jove, how comme il faut she is!” he said, as he observed her sidewise.  When they reached the cottage in the orchard she passed into the gate without asking him to follow; but she turned round, as he stood there, to bid him good-night.

“I asked you a question the other night which you never answered,” he said.  “Have you sent off that document—­liberating yourself?”