action she could render him. He must be able to regard her as
magnanimous, a woman who had proved herself worth living or dying for.
And he must have the joy of subduing her to his will.

'No,' said Rhoda firmly. 'I can't answer you tonight. I can't decide so
suddenly.'

This was disingenuous, and she felt humiliated by her subterfuge.
Anything but a sudden decision was asked of her. Before leaving Chelsea
she had 'foreseen this moment, and had made preparations for the
possibility of never returning to Miss Barfoot's house--knowing the
nature of the proposal that would be offered to her. But the practical
resolve needed a greater effort than she had imagined. Above all, she
feared an ignominious failure of purpose after her word was given;
_that_ would belittle her in Everard's eyes, and so shame her in her
own that all hope of happiness in marriage must be at an end.

'You are still doubtful of me, Rhoda?'

He took her hand, and again drew her close. But she refused her lips.

'Or are you doubtful of your own love?'

'No. If I understand what love means, I love you.'

'Then give me the kiss I am waiting for. You have not kissed me yet.'

'I can't--until I am sure of myself--of my readiness--'

Her broken words betrayed the passion with which she was struggling.
Everard felt her tremble against his side.

'Give me your hand,' he whispered. 'The left hand.'

Before she could guess his purpose he had slipped a ring upon her
finger, a marriage ring. Rhoda started away from him, and at once drew
off the perilous symbol.

'No--that proves to me I can't! What should we gain? You see, you dare
not be quite consistent. It's only deceiving the people who don't know
us.'

'But I have explained to you. The consistency is in ourselves, our own
minds--'

'Take it back. Custom is too strong for us. We should only play at
defying it. Take it back--or I shall drop it on the sand.'

Profoundly mortified, Everard restored the gold circlet to its
hiding-place and stood gazing at the dim horizon. Some moments passed,
then he heard his name murmured. He did not look round.

'Everard, dearest--'

Was that Rhoda's voice, so low, tender, caressing? It thrilled him, and
with a silent laugh of scorn at his own folly, he turned to her, every
thought burnt up in passion.

'Will you kiss me?'

For an answer she laid her hands on his shoulders and gazed at him.
Barfoot understood. He smiled constrainedly, and said in a low v