hed
against him; she felt that to yield would be salvation and happiness,
yet yield she might not, and upon him she visited the anger due to the
evil impulses in her own heart. He spoke of her father, and in so doing
struck the only nerve in her which conveyed an emotion of tenderness;
instantly the feeling begot self-reproach, and of self-reproach was
born as quickly the harsh self-justification with which her pride ever
answered blame. She had made her father's life even more unhappy than
it need have been, and to be reminded of that only drove her more
resolutely upon the recklessness which would complete her ingratitude.

The afternoon wore away, the evening, a great part of the night. She
ate a few mouthfuls of bread, but could not exert herself to make tea.
It would be necessary to light a fire, and already the air of the room
was stifling.

After a night of sleeplessness, she could only lie on her bed through
the Sunday morning, wretched in a sense of abandonment. And then began
to assail her that last and subtlest of temptations, the thought that
already she had taken an irrevocable step, that an endeavour to return
would only be trouble spent in vain, that the easy course was, in
truth, the only one now open to her. Mrs. Tubbs was busy circulating
calumnies; that they were nothing more than calumnies could never be
proved; all who heard them would readily enough believe. Why should she
struggle uselessly to justify herself in the eyes of people predisposed
to condemn her? Fate was busy in all that had happened during the last
two days. Why had she quitted her situation at a moment's notice? Why
on this occasion rather than fifty times previously? It was not her own
doing; something impelled her, and the same force--call it chance or
destiny--would direct the issue once more. All she could foresee was
the keeping of her appointment with Scawthorne to-morrow morning; what
use to try and look further, when assuredly a succession of
circumstances impossible to calculate would in the end constrain her?
The best would be if she could sleep out the interval.

At mid-day she rose, ate and drank mechanically, then contemplated the
hours that must somehow be killed. There was sunlight in the sky, but
to what purpose should she go out? She went to the window, and surveyed
the portion of street that was visible. On the opposite pavement, at a
little distance, a man was standing; it was Sidney Kirkwood. The sight
of him