She stopped.  Was it likely that he would be there this morning?  No, not very likely.  He would finish all the books yesterday.  Yet others might have been brought.

If he would give her one long look—­the look for which she fainted —­then that should be the end.  That should be the very end.  She would not play with danger after that.  For now she knew that it was danger; that thought of Lyddy had made everything terribly clear.  He would never know anything of what had been in her foolish heart, and it would cost him nothing to look once at her with a rich, kind look.  He was all kindness.  He had done, was doing, things such as no other man in his position ever thought of.  She would like to tell him the immeasurable worship with which his nobleness inspired her; but the right words would never come to her, and the wrong would be so near her lips.  No, one look for him, and therewith an end.

The library was within sight; she had walked very quickly.  If he should not be there!  Her hand was on the door; the bitterness of it if the door proved to be locked.

It was open.  She was in the little entrance hall.  At the door of the library itself she stood listening.

Was that a sound of someone within?  No, only the beat of her own heart, the throb which seemed as if it must kill her.  She could not open the door!  She had not the strength to stand.  The pain, the pain!

Yet she had turned the handle, and had entered.  He was in the act of placing volumes on the shelves.  She moved forward and he looked round.

That was not the look she desired.  Surprise at first, surprise blent with pleasure; but then a gravity which was all but disapproval.

Yet he gave his hand.

‘Good-morning, Miss Trent!’ The voice was scrupulously subdued, as inflexionless as he could make it.  ’I am still at my secret work, you see.  When I went away for lunch yesterday something prevented me from returning, so I came down again this morning.’

‘You have got them nearly all put up.’

She could not face him, but kept her eyes on the almost empty cases.

‘Yes.  But I expect some more this afternoon.’

He walked away from her, with books in his hands.  Thyrza felt ashamed.  What must he think of her?  It was almost rude to come in this way—­without shadow of excuse.  Doubtless he was punishing her by this cold manner.  Yet he could not unsay what he had said yesterday; and his recognition of her just outside the Hall last night had been so friendly.  She felt that her mode of addressing him had been too unceremonious; the ‘Sir’ of their former intercourse seemed demanded again.  Yet to use it would be plain disregard of his request.

Must she speak another word and go?  That would be very hard.  Shame and embarrassment notwithstanding, it was so sweet to be here; nay, the shame itself was luxury.

He said: