'It is one way; but the nearest is in this direction,' said the
tourist--the same who had been criticized by the two old men.

At hearing him speak all the delicate activities in the young lady's
person stood still: she stopped like a clock. When she could again fence
with the perception which had caused all this, she breathed.

'Mr. Julian!' she exclaimed. The words were uttered in a way which would
have told anybody in a moment that here lay something connected with the
light of other days.

'Ah, Mrs. Petherwin!--Yes, I am Mr. Julian--though that can matter very
little, I should think, after all these years, and what has passed.'

No remark was returned to this rugged reply, and he continued
unconcernedly, 'Shall I put you in the path--it is just here?'

'If you please.'

'Come with me, then.'

She walked in silence at his heels, not a word passing between them all
the way: the only noises which came from the two were the brushing of her
dress and his gaiters against the heather, or the smart rap of a stray
flint against his boot.

They had now reached a little knoll, and he turned abruptly: 'That is
Anglebury--just where you see those lights. The path down there is the
one you must follow; it leads round the hill yonder and directly into the
town.'

'Thank you,' she murmured, and found that he had never removed his eyes
from her since speaking, keeping them fixed with mathematical exactness
upon one point in her face. She moved a little to go on her way; he
moved a little less--to go on his.

'Good-night,' said Mr. Julian.

The moment, upon the very face of it, was critical; and yet it was one of
those which have to wait for a future before they acquire a definite
character as good or bad.

Thus much would have been obvious to any outsider; it may have been
doubly so to Ethelberta, for she gave back more than she had got,
replying, 'Good-bye--if you are going to say no more.'

Then in struck Mr. Julian: 'What can I say? You are nothing to me. . . .
I could forgive a woman doing anything for spite, except marrying for
spite.'

'The connection of that with our present meeting does not appear, unless
it refers to what you have done. It does not refer to me.'

'I am not married: you are.'

She did not contradict him, as she might have done. 'Christopher,' she
said at last, 'this is how it is: you knew too much of me to respect me,
and too little to pity me. A half knowledge of another's life