“Very little time is given me,” she murmured.  The sound was like a whimper; exasperating to one who had witnessed her remorseless energy.

“I dare say you won’t find the hardship so great,” said he.

“Because,” she looked up quickly, “I went out one day to meet him?  Do you mean that, Robert?  I went to hear news of my sister.  I had received no letters from her.  And he wrote to say that he could tell me about her.  My uncle took me once to the Bank.  I saw him there first.  He spoke of Wrexby, and of my sister.  It is pleasant to inexperienced girls to hear themselves praised.  Since the day when you told me to turn back I have always respected you.”

Her eyelids lowered softly.

Could she have humbled herself more?  But she had, at the same time, touched his old wound:  and his rival then was the wooer now, rich, and a gentleman.  And this room, Robert thought as he looked about it, was the room in which she had refused him, when he first asked her to be his.

“I think,” he said, “I’ve never begged your pardon for the last occasion of our being alone here together.  I’ve had my arm round you.  Don’t be frightened.  That’s my marriage, and there was my wife.  And there’s an end of my likings and my misconduct.  Forgive me for calling it to mind.”

“No, no, Robert,” Rhoda lifted her hands, and, startled by the impulse, dropped them, saying:  “What forgiveness?  Was I ever angry with you?”

A look of tenderness accompanied the words, and grew into a dusky crimson rose under his eyes.

“When you went into the wood, I saw you going:  I knew it was for some good object,” he said, and flushed equally.

But, by the recurrence to that scene, he had checked her sensitive developing emotion.  She hung a moment in languor, and that oriental warmth of colour ebbed away from her cheeks.

“You are very kind,” said she.

Then he perceived in dimmest fashion that possibly a chance had come to ripeness, withered, and fallen, within the late scoffing seconds of time.  Enraged at his blindness, and careful, lest he had wrongly guessed, not to expose his regret (the man was a lover), he remarked, both truthfully and hypocritically:  “I’ve always thought you were born to be a lady.”  (You had that ambition, young madam.)

She answered:  “That’s what I don’t understand.” (Your saying it, O my friend!)

“You will soon take to your new duties.” (You have small objection to them even now.)

“Yes, or my life won’t be worth much.” (Know, that you are driving me to it.)

“And I wish you happiness, Rhoda.” (You are madly imperilling the prospect thereof.)

To each of them the second meaning stood shadowy behind the utterances.  And further,—­

“Thank you, Robert.” (I shall have to thank you for the issue.)

“Now it’s time to part.” (Do you not see that there’s a danger for me in remaining?)