ridport about you coming up here in the dinner-hour. Come and cheer
me up. I'm bothered to death."

He kissed her and put his arms round her, but she would not stop.

"I can't stay here," she said. "I want to walk up the hill with you. If
you're bothered, so am I, my darling."

He put on his hat and they went out together.

"I've had a nasty jar," she told him. "People are beginning to say
things, Raymond--things that you wouldn't like to think are being said."

"I thought we rose superior to the rest of the world, and what it said
and what it thought."

"We do and we always have. We're not moral cowards either of us. But
there are some things. You don't want me to be insulted. You don't want
either of us to lose the respect of people."

"We can't have our cake and eat it too, I suppose," he said rather
carelessly. "Personally I don't care a straw whether people respect me,
or despise me, as long as I respect myself. The people that matter to me
respect me all right."

"Well, the people that matter to me, don't," she answered with a flash
of colour. "We'll leave you out, Raymond, since you're satisfied; but
I'm not satisfied. It isn't right, or fair, that I should begin to get
sour looks from the women here, where I used to have smiles; and looks
from the men--hateful looks--looks that no decent woman ought to suffer.
And my mother has heard a lot of lies and is very miserable. So I think
it's high time we let everybody know we're engaged. And you must think
so, too, after what I've told you, Ray dear."

"Certainly," he answered, "not a shadow of doubt about it. And if I saw
any man insult you, I should delight to thrash him on the spot--or a
dozen of them. How the devil do people find out about one? I thought
we'd been more than clever enough to hoodwink a dead alive place like
this."

"Will you let me tell mother, to-day? And Sally Groves, and one or two
of my best friends at the Mill? Do, Raymond--it's only fair to me now."

Had she left unspoken her last sentence, he might have agreed; but it
struck a wrong note on his ear. It sounded selfish; it suggested that
Sabina was concerned with herself and indifferent to the complications
she had brought into his life. For a moment he was minded to answer
hastily; but he controlled himself.

"It's natural you should feel like that; so do I, of course. We must
settle a date for letting it out. I'll think about it. I'd say this
minute, and you know I'm looking f