She turned.

“Hush!  You don’t know what you are saying.  It isn’t abnormal to wish to dedicate——­”

She stopped.

“What?” he said.

“Don’t let us talk of these things.  But you must not judge any woman without knowing what is in her heart.  Even your own mother, with whom you have lived alone ever since your father’s death—­do you know very much of her?  We can’t always show ourselves plainly as we are.  It may not be our fault.”

“You will marry.  You must marry.”

“Why—­must?”

He gazed at her.  As she met his eyes she reddened slightly, understanding his thought, that such a woman as she was ought not to avoid the great vocation of woman.  But there was another vocation, and perhaps it was hers.  She felt confused.  Two desires were struggling within her.  It was as if her nature contained two necessities which were wholly irreconcilable the one with the other.

“You can’t tell me?” he said, at last.

“Not now.”

“Then I am going, and I shall never ask you again.  But I shall never be able to love any one but you.”

He said nothing more, and went away without touching her hand.

Words of Dante ran in Rosamund’s head, and she repeated them to herself after Dion had gone.

“La divina volontate!” She believed in it; she said to herself that she trusted it absolutely.  But how was she to know exactly what it was?  And yet, could she escape from it even if she wished to?  Could she wander away into any path where the Divine Will did not mean her to set foot?  Predestination—­free will.  “If only I were not so ignorant,” she thought.

Soon after six she went up to her bedroom to put on her things for church.

Her bedroom was very simple, and showed plainly an indifference to luxury, a dislike of show and of ostentation in its owner.  The walls and ceiling were white.  The bed, which stood against the wall in one corner, was exceptionally long.  This fact, perhaps, made it look exceptionally narrow.  It was quite plain, had a white wooden bedstead, and was covered with a white bedspread of a very ordinary type.  There was one arm-chair in the room made of wickerwork with a rather hard cushion on the seat, the sort of cushion that resolutely refuses to “give” when one sits down on it.  On the small dressing-table there was no array of glittering silver bottles, boxes and brushes.  A straw flagon of eau-de-Cologne was Rosamund’s sole possession of perfume.  She did not own a box of powder or a puff.  But it must be acknowledged that she never looked “shiny.”  She had some ivory hair-brushes given to her one Christmas by Bruce Evelin.  Beside them was placed a hideous receptacle for—­well, for anything—­pins, perhaps, buttons, small tiresomenesses of that kind.  It was made of some glistening black material, and at its center there bloomed a fearful red cabbage rose, a rose all vulgarity, ostentation and importance.  This monstrosity had been given to Rosamund as a thank-offering by a poor charwoman to whom she had been kind.  It had been in constant use now for over three years.  The charwoman knew this with grateful pride.