before her friends the simple news that she was about to marry.  That announcement would excite something more than surprise.  Mary Barfoot could not but smile with gentle irony; other women would laugh among themselves; the girls would feel a shock, as at the fall of one who had made heroic pretences.  A sure way of averting this ridicule was by furnishing occasion for much graver astonishment.  If it became known that she had taken a step such as few women would have dared to take—­deliberately setting an example of new liberty—­her position in the eyes of all who knew her remained one of proud independence.  Rhoda’s character was specially exposed to the temptation of such a motive.  For months this argument had been in her mind, again and again she decided that the sensational step was preferable to a commonplace renunciation of all she had so vehemently preached.  And now that the moment of actual choice had come she felt able to dare everything—­as far as the danger concerned herself; but she perceived more strongly than hitherto that not only her own future was involved.  How would such practical heresy affect Everard’s position?

She uttered this thought.

’Are you willing, for the sake of this idea, to abandon all society but that of the very few people who would approve or tolerate what you have done?’

’I look upon the thing in this way.  We are not called upon to declare our principles wherever we go.  If we regard each other as married, why, we are married.  I am no Quixote, hoping to convert the world.  It is between you and me—­our own sense of what is reasonable and dignified.’

‘But you would not make it a mere deception?’

‘Mary would of course be told, and any one else you like.’

She believed him entirely serious.  Another woman might have suspected that he was merely trying her courage, either to assure himself of her love or to gratify his vanity.  But Rhoda’s idealism enabled her to take him literally.  She herself had for years maintained an exaggerated standard of duty and merit; desirous of seeing Everard in a nobler light than hitherto, she endeavoured to regard his scruple against formal wedlock as worthy of all respect.

‘I can’t answer you at once,’ she said, half turning away.

‘You must.  Here and at once.’

The one word of assent would have satisfied him.  This he obstinately required.  He believed that it would confirm his love beyond any other satisfaction she could render him.  He must be able to regard her as magnanimous, a woman who had proved herself worth living or dying for.  And he must have the joy of subduing her to his will.

‘No,’ said Rhoda firmly.  ’I can’t answer you tonight.  I can’t decide so suddenly.’