’I write very hurriedly, as you see.  That I ought to write is, I think, clear—­though I may be doing lamentable mischief.  I cannot credit this charge against Mrs. Widdowson; there must surely be some explanation.  If you have already left Seascale, no doubt this letter will be forwarded.—­Ever yours, dear Rhoda,

MARY BARFOOT.’

Everard laughed bitterly.  The completeness of the case against him in Rhoda’s eyes must be so overwhelming, and his absolute innocence made it exasperating to have to defend himself.  How, indeed, was he to defend himself?

The story was strange enough.  Could he be right in the interpretation which at once suggested itself to his mind—­or perhaps to his vanity?  He remembered the meeting with Mrs. Widdowson near his abode on Friday.  He recollected, moreover, the signs of interest in himself which, as he now thought, she had shown on previous occasions.  Had the poor little woman—­doubtless miserable with her husband—­actually let herself fall in love with him?  But, even in that case, what a reckless thing to do—­to come to his rooms!  Why, she must have been driven by a despair that blinded her to all sense of delicacy!  Perhaps, had he been at home, she would have made a pretence of wishing to speak about Rhoda Nunn.  That was imprudent behaviour of his, making such a person his confidante.  But he was tempted by his liking for her.

‘By Jove!’ he muttered, overcome by the thought.  ’I’m glad I was not at home!’

But then—­he had told her that he was going away on Saturday.  How could she expect to find him?  The hour of her visit was not stated; probably she hoped to catch him before he left.  And was her appearance in the neighbourhood on Friday—­her troubled aspect—­ to be explained as an abortive attempt to have a private interview with him?

The queerest affair—­and maddening in its issues!  Rhoda was raging with jealousy.  Well, he too would rage.  And without affectation.  It was strange that he felt almost glad of a ground of quarrel with Rhoda.  All day he had been in an irritable temper, and so far as he could understand himself it was due to resentment of his last night’s defeat.  He though of Rhoda as ardently as ever, but an element that was very like brutality had intruded into his emotions; that was his reason from refraining from caresses this morning; he could not trust himself.

He would endure no absurdities.  If Rhoda did not choose to accept his simple assurance—­let her take the consequences.  Even now, perhaps, he would bring her to her knees before him.  Let her wrong him by baseless accusation!  Then it would no longer be he who sued for favour.  He would whistle her down the wind, and await her penitent reappearance.  Sooner or later his pride and hers, the obstinacy in their natures, must battle it out; better that it should be now, before the irrevocable step had been taken.

He ate his dinner with savage appetite, and drank a good deal more wine than of wont.  Then he smoked until the last minute of delay that his engagement allowed.  Of course she had sent the letter to the hotel because he might be unable to read it in twilight.  Wise precaution.  And he was glad to have been able to think the matter over, to work himself into reasonable wrath.  If ever man did well to be angry—!