“And wheel myself about because I can’t walk?”

“Is that what you meant?  Believe me, I didn’t mean that.  I was thinking how different you were to talk to, to other men I’ve met.”

“You flatter me.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then, since I’m so exceptional, will you do something for me?”

“Perhaps.”

“Never be later than you can help.  I worry, fearing something’s happened to you.”

“Not really?”

“You are scarcely a subject I should fib about.”

This was the beginning of a conversation that took place a fortnight after Mavis’s first meeting with Harold by the sea.  During this time, they had seen each other for the best part of every day when the weather was fine enough for Harold to be out of doors; as it was an exceptionally fine spring, they met constantly.  Mavis was still moved by an immense hatred of the Devitt family, whom, more than ever before, she believed to be responsible for the wrongs and sufferings she had endured.  In her determination to injure this family by making Harold infatuated with her, she was not a little surprised at the powers of dissimulation which she had never before suspected that she possessed.  She was both ashamed and proud of this latent manifestation of her individuality—­proud because she was inclined to rejoice in the power that it conferred.  But, at times, this elation was diluted with self-reproaches, chiefly when she was with Harold, but not looking at him; then his deep, rich voice would awaken strange tremors in her being.

However much Mavis was occasionally moved to pity his physical misfortune, the recollection of her griefs was more than enough to harden her heart.

“Very, very strange that I should have run against you here,” he went on.

“Why?”

“I was at home when your old schoolmistress’s letter came about you.  I remember she dragged in Ruskin.”

“Poor Miss Mee!”

“I was always interested in you, and when I was in the South of France, I was always asking my people to do their best for you.”

Mavis’s eyes grew hard as she asked: 

“You’ve kept your promise to me?”

“That I shouldn’t tell my people I’d met you?”

“I made it because—–­”

“Never mind why.  You made it:  that is enough for me.”

Mavis’s eyes softened.  Then she and Harold fell to talking of Melkbridge and Montague Devitt; presently of Victoria.

“I hope she was kind to you at Melkbridge,” said Harold.

“Very,” declared Mavis, saying what was untrue.

“Dear Vic is a little disappointing.  I’m always reproaching myself I don’t love her more than I do.  Have you ever met the man she married?”

“Mr. Perigal?  I’ve met him,” replied Mavis.

“Do you like him?”

“I scarcely remember.”

“I don’t overmuch.  I’m sorry Vic married him, although my people were, of course, delighted.”