He looked her in the face unwaveringly.  It was the look which tormented her, not that which she yearned for.  She could not move away her eyes.

‘You are going away, Mr. Egremont?’

’Yes, I am going out of England for a week or two—­perhaps for longer.’

It was wrong—­all wrong.  In spite of himself he could not but admit a note of pathos.  The automatic voice of politeness would not come at his bidding.  He should have left her on the other side of the bridge, where the harsh bells allowed no delicacies of tone.

‘To France?’ she asked.

’No.  To an island very near France.  I must not keep you standing here, Miss Trent.  It is very cold.’

Yes, the wind was cold, but perspiration covered his face.

’Please—­only a minute.  May I go to the library and do some more of the books?  Are they all finished?’

’No.  There’s still one case of them, and more will be coming.  Certainly you may go there if you wish.’

Her voice fell.

‘But I shan’t know how to put them.  No, I can’t do it alone.’

’I shall write to Mr. Grail, and tell him what I have been doing.  You can help him.’

‘Yes.’

The monosyllable fell from her like a whisper of despair.  But the utterance of Grail’s name had brought Egremont the last impulse he needed.

‘When I come back,’ he said, ’I shall find you in your new home.  As I shan’t see you again, let me say now how much I hope that you will live there a long time and very happily.  Good-bye, Miss Trent.’

Surely that was formal and automatic enough.  Not one more word, not one more glance at her face.  He had touched her hand, had raised his hat, was gone.

She stood gazing after him until, in a minute or two, he was lost in the dark street behind the wharfs.  So suddenly!  He had scarcely said good-bye—­so poor a good-bye!  She had vexed him with her importunities; he wished to show her that she had not behaved in the way that pleased him.  Scarcely a good-bye!

She went to the end of the bridge, and there crept into a dark place whither no eye could follow her.  Her strength was at an end.  She fell to her knees; her head lay against something hard and cold; a sob convulsed her, and then in the very anguish of desolation she wept.  The darkness folded her; she could lie here on the ground and abandon herself to misery.  She wept her soul from her eyes.

But for Egremont the struggle was not over.  He had scarcely passed out of her sight when fear held his steps.  Thyrza must not he left there alone.  That face of hers, looking like marble, threatened despair.  How could he leave her so far from home, in the night, by the river?

He went back.  He knew what such return meant.  It was defeat after all.  He knew what his first word to her would be.

He sought her now, sought her that she might never leave him again.  The flood of passion was too strong; that moment of supreme restraint had but massed the waters into overwhelming power.  It was the thought of danger to her that had ended all pity for Gilbert.