explanation, I will hear it.
But I shall not ask her.'

'Your view of the fitness of things is that I should request her to
wait upon you for that purpose?'

'There are others who can act for you.'

'Very well. Then we are at a deadlock. It seems to me that we had
better shake hands like sensible people, and say good-bye.'

'Much better--if it seems so to you.'

The time for emotional help was past. In very truth they had nothing
more to say to each other, being now hardened in obstinacy. Each
suffered from the other's coldness, each felt angry with the other's
stubborn refusal to concede a point of dignity. Everard put out his
hand.

'When you are ready to say that you have used me very ill, I shall
remember only yesterday. Till then--good-bye, Rhoda.'

She made a show of taking his hand, but said nothing. And so they
parted.

* * *

At eight o'clock next morning Barfoot was seated in the southward
train. He rejoiced that his strength of will had thus far asserted
itself. Of final farewell to Rhoda he had no thought whatever. Her
curiosity would, of course, compel her to see Monica; one way or
another she would learn that he was blameless. His part was to keep
aloof from her, and to wait for her inevitable submission.

Violent rain was beating upon the carriage windows; it drove from the
mountains, themselves invisible, though dense low clouds marked their
position. Poor Rhoda! She would not have a very cheerful day at
Seascale. Perhaps she would follow him by a later train. Certain it was
that she must be suffering intensely--and that certainly rejoiced him.
The keener her suffering the sooner her submission. Oh, but the
submission should be perfect! He had seen her in many moods, but not
yet in the anguish of broken pride. She must shed tears before him,
declare her spirit worn and subjugated by torment of jealousy and fear.
Then he would raise her, and seat her in the place of honour, and fall
down at her feet, and fill her soul with rapture.

Many times between Seascale and London he smiled in anticipation of
that hour.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE REASCENT

Whilst the rain pelted, and it did so until afternoon, Rhoda sat in her
little parlour, no whit less miserable than Barfoot imagined. She could
not be sure whether Everard had gone to London; at the last moment
reflection or emotion might have detained him. Early in the morning she
had sent to post a letter for Miss Barfoot, written last nig