When she ceased her heart was beating so violently that there was a rush in her ears like the noise of the river after rain, and she did not immediately make out what he was answering.  But as she recovered her lucidity she said to herself that, whatever he was saying, she must not hear it; and she began to speak again, half playfully, half appealingly, with an eloquence of entreaty, an ingenuity in argument, of which she had never dreamed herself capable.  And then, suddenly, strangling hands seemed to reach up from her heart to her throat, and she had to stop.

Her companion remained motionless.  He had not tried to regain her hand, and his eyes were away from her, on the river.  But his nearness had become something formidable and exquisite—­something she had never before imagined.  A flush of guilt swept over her—­vague reminiscences of French novels and of opera plots.  This was what such women felt, then . . . this was “shame.” . . .  Phrases of the newspaper and the pulpit danced before her. . . .  She dared not speak, and his silence began to frighten her.  Had ever a heart beat so wildly before in Wentworth?

He turned at last, and taking her two hands, quite simply, kissed them one after the other.

“I shall never forget—­” he said in a confused voice, unlike his own.

A return of strength enabled her to rise, and even to let her eyes meet his for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said, simply also.

She turned away from the bench, regaining the path that led back to the college buildings, and he walked beside her in silence.  When they reached the elm walk it was dotted with dispersing groups.  The “speaking” was over, and Hamblin Hall had poured its audience out into the moonlight.  Margaret felt a rush of relief, followed by a receding wave of regret.  She had the distinct sensation that her hour—­her one hour—­was over.

One of the groups just ahead broke up as they approached, and projected Ransom’s solid bulk against the moonlight.

“My husband,” she said, hastening forward; and she never afterward forgot the look of his back—­heavy, round-shouldered, yet a little pompous—­in a badly fitting overcoat that stood out at the neck and hid his collar.  She had never before noticed how he dressed.

IV

THEY met again, inevitably, before Dawnish left; but the thing she feared did not happen—­he did not try to see her alone.

It even became clear to her, in looking back, that he had deliberately avoided doing so; and this seemed merely an added proof of his “understanding,” of that deep undefinable communion that set them alone in an empty world, as if on a peak above the clouds.