They were to meet again, probably for the definite parting, three days hence.  Tarrant, whose desire for escape had now become incontrollable, used the intervening time in a rush of preparations.  He did not debate with himself as to the length of his sojourn in the West Indies; that must be determined by circumstances.  Explicitly he had avoided a promise on the subject.  What money he possessed he would take with him; it might be to his interest, for Nancy’s likewise, to exceed the term of absence provided for in his stipulations with Mr. Vawdrey.  But all he deliberately thought of was the getting away.  Impatient with Nancy, because of the vagaries resultant from her mental and physical state, he himself exhibited a flagrant triumph of instinct over reason.  Once in enjoyment of liberty, he would reflect, like a practical man, on the details of his position, review and recognise his obligations, pay his debt to honour; but liberty first of all.  Not his the nature to accept bondage; it demoralised him, made him do and say things of which he was ashamed.  Only let him taste the breezes of ocean, and the healthful spirit which is one with rectitude would again inspire him.

Much to his surprise, he neither saw nor heard from Nancy until the hour appointed.  She came very punctually.  On opening the door to her, with an air of resolute cheerfulness, he saw something in her face that removed the necessity for playing a part.  It was the look which had so charmed him in their love-days, the indescribable look, characteristic of Nancy, and of her alone; a gleam between smile and laughter, a glance mingling pride with submission, a silent note of personality which thrilled the senses and touched the heart.

‘What now?’ he asked, holding her hand and gazing at her.  ’Some good news?’

’None that I know of.  How hot your room is!  Why, you look glad to see me!’

‘Was I ever anything else?’

She answered him with a smile.

‘It’s a very pleasant surprise,’ he continued, watching her as she threw off her out-door things.  ’I expected a doleful visage, eyes red with weeping.’

’Did you?  See how much a man thinks of himself!  If you choose to go away, I choose to think as little of you as possible.  That’s common sense—­isn’t it?’

‘I don’t want you to cry about it.’

’Oh yes, you do.  It flatters you, and you like flattery.  But I’ve been too obliging.  I feel myself again, and there’s no more flattery for you—­till you come back.  I don’t ask you when that will be.  I ask you nothing at all.  I am independent of you.’

Tarrant grew uneasy.  He feared that this mood of jest would change only too suddenly, and her collapse into feminine feebleness be the more complete.

‘Be as independent as you like,’ he said; ’only keep your love for me.’

’Oh, indeed!  It’s your experience, is it, that the two things can go together?  That’s the difference between man and woman, I suppose.  I shall love you just as little as possible—­and how little that will be, perhaps I had better not tell you.’