pale blossoms
above the crowding grasses. Slender pilasters and an intricate fan-light
framed the opening where the door had hung; and the door itself lay
rotting in the grass, with an old apple-tree fallen across it.

Inside, also, wind and weather had blanched everything to the same
wan silvery tint; the house was as dry and pure as the interior of a
long-empty shell. But it must have been exceptionally well built, for
the little rooms had kept something of their human aspect: the wooden
mantels with their neat classic ornaments were in place, and the corners
of one ceiling retained a light film of plaster tracery.

Harney had found an old bench at the back door and dragged it into the
house. Charity sat on it, leaning her head against the wall in a state
of drowsy lassitude. He had guessed that she was hungry and thirsty,
and had brought her some tablets of chocolate from his bicycle-bag, and
filled his drinking-cup from a spring in the orchard; and now he sat at
her feet, smoking a cigarette, and looking up at her without speaking.
Outside, the afternoon shadows were lengthening across the grass, and
through the empty window-frame that faced her she saw the Mountain
thrusting its dark mass against a sultry sunset. It was time to go.

She stood up, and he sprang to his feet also, and passed his arm through
hers with an air of authority. "Now, Charity, you're coming back with
me."

She looked at him and shook her head. "I ain't ever going back. You
don't know."

"What don't I know?" She was silent, and he continued: "What happened on
the wharf was horrible--it's natural you should feel as you do. But it
doesn't make any real difference: you can't be hurt by such things.
You must try to forget. And you must try to understand that men... men
sometimes..."

"I know about men. That's why."

He coloured a little at the retort, as though it had touched him in a
way she did not suspect.

"Well, then... you must know one has to make allowances.... He'd been
drinking...."

"I know all that, too. I've seen him so before. But he wouldn't have
dared speak to me that way if he hadn't..."

"Hadn't what? What do you mean?"

"Hadn't wanted me to be like those other girls...." She lowered her
voice and looked away from him. "So's 't he wouldn't have to go out...."

Harney stared at her. For a moment he did not seem to seize her meaning;
then his face grew dark. "The damned hound! The villainous low
hound!" His wrath bl