thing which had come upon her.  Day by day it had increased and gathered power, and she realised with a certain sense of impatience that she had not in any degree understood it when she had seen and wondered at its effect on other women.  Each day had been like a wave encroaching farther upon the shore she stood upon.  At the outset a certain ignoble pride—­she knew it ignoble—­filled her with rebellion.  She had seen so much of this kind of situation, and had heard so much of the general comment.  People had learned how to sneer because experience had taught them.  If she gave them cause, why should they not sneer at her as at things?  She recalled what she had herself thought of such things—­the folly of them, the obviousness—­the almost deserved disaster.  She had arrogated to herself judgment of women—­and men—­who might, yes, who might have stood upon their strip of sand, as she stood, with the waves creeping in, each one higher, stronger, and more engulfing than the last.  There might have been those among them who also had knowledge of that sudden deadly joy at the sight of one face, at the drop of one voice.  When that wave submerged one’s pulsing being, what had the world to do with one—­how could one hear and think of what its speech might be?  Its voice clamoured too far off.

As she walked across the marsh she was thinking this first phase over.  She had reached a new one, and at first she looked back with a faint, even rather hard, smile.  She walked straight ahead, her mastiff, Roland, padding along heavily close at her side.  How still and wide and golden it was; how the cry of plover and lifting trill of skylark assured one that one was wholly encircled by solitude and space which were more enclosing than any walls!  She was going to the mounds to which Mr. Penzance had trundled G. Selden in the pony chaise, when he had given him the marvellous hour which had brought Roman camp and Roman legions to life again.  Up on the largest hillock one could sit enthroned, resting chin in hand and looking out under level lids at the unstirring, softly-living loveliness of the marsh-land world.  So she was presently seated, with her heavy-limbed Roland at her feet.  She had come here to try to put things clearly to herself, to plan with such reason as she could control.  She had begun to be unhappy, she had begun—­with some unfairness—­to look back upon the Betty Vanderpoel of the past as an unwittingly self-sufficient young woman, to find herself suddenly entangled by things, even to know a touch of desperateness.

“Not to take a remnant from the ducal bargain counter,” she was saying mentally.  That was why her smile was a little hard.  What if the remnant from the ducal bargain counter had prejudices of his own?

“If he were passionately—­passionately in love with me,” she said, with red staining her cheeks, “he would not come—­he would not come—­he would not come.  And, because of that, he is more to me—­more!  And more he will become every day—­and the more strongly he will hold me.  And there we stand.”