John had it in his mind to get Bell to himself for half an hour, and hold a conference with her; but it either happened that Lady Julia was too keen in her duties as a hostess, or else, as was more possible, Bell avoided the meeting.  No opportunity for such an interview offered itself, though he hung about the drawing-room all the morning.  “You had better wait for luncheon, now,” Lady Julia said to him about twelve.  But this he declined; and taking himself away hid himself about the place for the next hour and a half.  During this time he considered much whether it would be better for him to ride or walk.  If she should give him any hope, he could ride back triumphant as a field-marshal.  Then the horse would be delightful to him.  But if she should give him no hope,—­if it should be his destiny to be rejected utterly on that morning,—­then the horse would be terribly in the way of his sorrow.  Under such circumstances what could he do but roam wide across the fields, resting when he might choose to rest, and running when it might suit him to run.  “And she is not like other girls,” he thought to himself.  “She won’t care for my boots being dirty.”  So at last he elected to walk.

“Stand up to her boldly, man,” the earl had said to him.  “By George, what is there to be afraid of?  It’s my belief they’ll give most to those who ask for most.  There’s nothing sets ’em against a man like being sheepish.”  How the earl knew so much, seeing that he had not himself given signs of any success in that walk of life, I am not prepared to say.  But Eames took his advice as being in itself good, and resolved to act upon it.  “Not that any resolution will be of any use,” he said to himself, as he walked along.  “When the moment comes I know that I shall tremble before her, and I know that she’ll see it; but I don’t think it will make any difference in her.”

He had last seen her on the lawn behind the Small House, just at that time when her passion for Crosbie was at the strongest.  Eames had gone thither impelled by a foolish desire to declare to her his hopeless love, and she had answered him by telling him that she loved Mr Crosbie better than all the world besides.  Of course she had done so, at that time; but, nevertheless, her manner of telling him had seemed to him to be cruel.  And he also had been cruel.  He had told her that he hated Crosbie,—­calling him “that man,” and assuring her that no earthly consideration should induce him to go into “that man’s house.”  Then he had walked away moodily wishing him all manner of evil.  Was it not singular that all the evil things which he, in his mind, had meditated for the man, had fallen upon him.  Crosbie had lost his love!  He had so proved himself to be a villain that his name might not be so much as mentioned!  He had been ignominiously thrashed!  But what good would all this be if his image were still dear to Lily’s heart?  “I told her that I loved her then,” he said to himself, “though I had no right to do so.  At any rate I have a right to tell her now.”