Next morning, remorselessly carrying out that plan, she forced herself to smile and talk as if nothing had happened, watching the relief in his face, his obvious delight at the change, with a fearful aching in her heart.  She waited till he was ready to go down, and then, still smiling, said: 

“Forget all about yesterday, darling.  Promise me you won’t let it make any difference.  You must keep up your friendship; you mustn’t lose anything.  I shan’t mind; I shall be quite happy.”  He knelt down and leaned his forehead against her waist.  And, stroking his hair, she repeated:  “I shall only be happy if you take everything that comes your way.  I shan’t mind a bit.”  And she watched his face that had lost its trouble.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes; really!”

“Then you do see that it’s nothing, never has been anything—­compared with you—­never!”

He had accepted her crucifixion.  A black wave surged into her heart.

“It would be so difficult and awkward for you to give up that intimacy.  It would hurt your cousin so.”

She saw the relief deepen in his face and suddenly laughed.  He got up from his knees and stared at her.

“Oh, Gyp, for God’s sake don’t begin again!”

But she went on laughing; then, with a sob, turned away and buried her face in her hands.  To all his prayers and kisses she answered nothing, and breaking away from him, she rushed toward the door.  A wild thought possessed her.  Why go on?  If she were dead, it would be all right for him, quiet—­peaceful, quiet—­for them all!  But he had thrown himself in the way.

“Gyp, for heaven’s sake!  I’ll give her up—­of course I’ll give her up.  Do—­do—­be reasonable!  I don’t care a finger-snap for her compared with you!”

And presently there came another of those lulls that both were beginning to know were mere pauses of exhaustion.  They were priceless all the same, for the heart cannot go on feeling at that rate.

It was Sunday morning, the church-bells ringing, no wind, a lull in the sou’westerly gale—­one of those calms that fall in the night and last, as a rule, twelve or fifteen hours, and the garden all strewn with leaves of every hue, from green spotted with yellow to deep copper.

Summerhay was afraid; he kept with her all the morning, making all sorts of little things to do in her company.  But he gradually lost his fear, she seemed so calm now, and his was a nature that bore trouble badly, ever impatient to shake it off.  And then, after lunch, the spirit-storm beat up again, with a swiftness that showed once more how deceptive were those lulls, how fearfully deep and lasting the wound.  He had simply asked her whether he should try to match something for her when he went up, to-morrow.  She was silent a moment, then answered: 

“Oh, no, thanks; you’ll have other things to do; people to see!”