but recognise in Kirkwood’s appeal, inflamed the resentment she nourished against him; she felt that to yield would be salvation and happiness, yet yield she might not, and upon him she visited the anger due to the evil impulses in her own heart.  He spoke of her father, and in so doing struck the only nerve in her which conveyed an emotion of tenderness; instantly the feeling begot self-reproach, and of self-reproach was born as quickly the harsh self-justification with which her pride ever answered blame.  She had made her father’s life even more unhappy than it need have been, and to be reminded of that only drove her more resolutely upon the recklessness which would complete her ingratitude.

The afternoon wore away, the evening, a great part of the night.  She ate a few mouthfuls of bread, but could not exert herself to make tea.  It would be necessary to light a fire, and already the air of the room was stifling.

After a night of sleeplessness, she could only lie on her bed through the Sunday morning, wretched in a sense of abandonment.  And then began to assail her that last and subtlest of temptations, the thought that already she had taken an irrevocable step, that an endeavour to return would only be trouble spent in vain, that the easy course was, in truth, the only one now open to her.  Mrs. Tubbs was busy circulating calumnies; that they were nothing more than calumnies could never be proved; all who heard them would readily enough believe.  Why should she struggle uselessly to justify herself in the eyes of people predisposed to condemn her?  Fate was busy in all that had happened during the last two days.  Why had she quitted her situation at a moment’s notice?  Why on this occasion rather than fifty times previously?  It was not her own doing; something impelled her, and the same force—­call it chance or destiny—­would direct the issue once more.  All she could foresee was the keeping of her appointment with Scawthorne to-morrow morning; what use to try and look further, when assuredly a succession of circumstances impossible to calculate would in the end constrain her?  The best would be if she could sleep out the interval.

At mid-day she rose, ate and drank mechanically, then contemplated the hours that must somehow be killed.  There was sunlight in the sky, but to what purpose should she go out?  She went to the window, and surveyed the portion of street that was visible.  On the opposite pavement, at a little distance, a man was standing; it was Sidney Kirkwood.  The sight of him roused her from apathy; her blood tingled, rushed into her cheeks and throbbed at her temples.  So, for all she had said, he was daring to act the spy!  He suspected her; he was lurking to surprise visitors, to watch her outgoing and coming in.  Very well; at least he had provided her with occupation.