’Yes, you are changed noticeably.  I thought I knew you; perhaps I did.  Now I should have to learn you all over again.  It is difficult, you see, for me to keep pace with you.  Your opportunities are so much wider.’

This was puzzling.  Did it signify mere jealousy, or a profounder view of things?  Her voice had something even of pathos, as though she uttered a simple thought, without caustic intention.

‘I try not to waste my life,’ he answered seriously.  ’I have made new acquaintances.’

‘Will you tell me about them?’

’Tell me first about yourself.  You say you would never have written to me.  That means, I think, that you never loved me.  When you found that I had been wrongly suspected—­and you suspected me yourself, say what you will—­if you had loved me, you would have asked forgiveness.’

’I have a like reason for doubting your love.  If you had loved me you could never have waited so long without trying to remove the obstacle that was between us.’

‘It was you who put the obstacle there,’ said Everard, smiling.

‘No.  An unlucky chance did that.  Or a lucky one.  Who knows?’

He began to think:  If this woman had enjoyed the social advantages to which Agnes Brissenden and those others were doubtless indebted for so much of their charm, would she not have been their equal, or more?  For the first time he compassionated Rhoda.  She was brave, and circumstances had not been kind to her.  At this moment, was she not contending with herself?  Was not her honesty, her dignity, struggling against the impulses of her heart?  Rhoda’s love had been worth more than his, and it would be her one love in life.  A fatuous reflection, perhaps; yet every moment’s observation seemed to confirm it.

‘Well, now,’ he said, ’there’s the question which we must decide.  If you incline to think that the chance was fortunate—­’

She would not speak.

‘We must know each other’s mind.’

‘Ah, that is so difficult!’ Rhoda murmured, just raising her hand and letting it fall.

’Yes, unless we give each other help.  Let us imagine ourselves back at Seascale, down by the waves. (How cold and grim it must be there to-night!) I repeat what I said then:  Rhoda, will you marry me?’

She looked fixedly at him.

‘You didn’t say that then.’

‘What do the words matter?’

‘That was not what you said.’

He watched the agitation of her features, until his gaze seemed to compel her to move.  She stepped towards the fireplace, and moved a little screen that stood too near the fender.

‘Why do you want me to repeat exactly what I said?’ Everard asked, rising and following her.

’You speak of the “perfect day.”  Didn’t the day’s perfection end before there was any word of marriage?’

He looked at her with surprise.  She had spoken without turning her face towards him; it was visible now only by the glow of the fire.  Yes, what she said was true, but a truth which he had neither expected nor desired to hear.  Had the new revelation prepared itself?