“Then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt her horse-” That woman!  “It was as if you were on her side!”

He saw too well her mind, its clear rigidity, its intuitive perception of that with which it was not safe to sympathise, its instinct for self-preservation, its spontaneous contempt for those without that instinct.  And she had written these words considering herself bound to him—­a man of sentiment, of rebellious sympathies, of untidiness of principle!  Here was the answer to the question he had asked all day:  “How have things come to such a pass?” and he began to feel compassion for her.

Poor child!  She could not jilt him; there was something vulgar in the word!  Never should it be said that Antonia Dennant had accented him and thrown him over.  No lady did these things!  They were impossible!  At the bottom of his heart he had a queer, unconscious sympathy with, this impossibility.

Once again he read the letter, which seemed now impregnated with fresh meaning, and the anger which had mingled with his first sensation of relief detached itself and grew in force.  In that letter there was something tyrannous, a denial of his right to have a separate point of view.  It was like a finger pointed at him as an unsound person.  In marrying her he would be marrying not only her, but her class—­his class.  She would be there always to make him look on her and on himself, and all the people that they knew and all the things they did, complacently; she would be there to make him feel himself superior to everyone whose life was cast in other moral moulds.  To feel himself superior, not blatantly, not consciously, but with subconscious righteousness.

But his anger, which was like the paroxysm that two days before had made him mutter at the Connoisseur, “I hate your d—–­d superiority,” struck him all at once as impotent and ludicrous.  What was the good of being angry?  He was on the point of losing her!  And the anguish of that thought, reacting on his anger, intensified it threefold.  She was so certain of herself, so superior to her emotions, to her natural impulses—­superior to her very longing to be free from him.  Of that fact, at all events, Shelton had no longer any doubt.  It was beyond argument.  She did not really love him; she wanted to be free of him!

A photograph hung in his bedroom at Holm Oaks of a group round the hall door; the Honourable Charlotte Penguin, Mrs. Dennant, Lady Bonington, Halidome, Mr. Dennant, and the stained-glass man—­all were there; and on the left-hand side, looking straight in front of her, Antonia.  Her face in its youthfulness, more than all those others, expressed their point of view:  Behind those calm young eyes lay a world of safety and tradition.  “I am not as others are,” they seemed to say.

And from that photograph Mr. and Mrs. Dennant singled themselves out; he could see their faces as they talked—­their faces with a peculiar and uneasy look on them; and he could hear their voices, still decisive, but a little acid, as if they had been quarrelling: