eye) at Newhaven, another at Trix; then he remarked
kindly:

"We shall be uncommonly sorry to lose you, Newhaven."

Events began to happen now, and I will tell them as well as I am able,
supplementing my own knowledge by what I learned afterward from
Dora--she having learned it from the actors in the scene. In spite of
the solemn warning conveyed in Newhaven's intimation, Trix, greatly
daring, went off immediately after lunch for what she described as "a
long ramble" with Mr. Ives. There was, indeed, the excuse of an old
woman at the end of the ramble, and Trix provided Jack with a small
basket of comforts for the useful old body; but the ramble was, we
felt, the thing, and I was much annoyed at not being able to accompany
the walkers in the cloak of darkness or other invisible contrivance.
The ramble consumed three hours--full measure. Indeed, it was
half-past six before Trix, alone, walked up the drive. Newhaven, a
solitary figure, paced up and down the terrace fronting the drive.
Trix came on, her head thrown back and a steady smile on her lips. She
saw Newhaven; he stood looking at her for a moment with what she
afterward described as an indescribable smile on his face, but not, as
Dora understood from her, by any means a pleasant one. Yet, if not
pleasant, there is not the least doubt in the world that it was highly
significant, for she cried out nervously: "Why are you looking at me
like that? What's the matter?"

Newhaven, still saying nothing, turned his back on her, and made as if
he would walk into the house and leave her there, ignored, discarded,
done with. She, realizing the crisis which had come, forgetting
everything except the imminent danger of losing him once for all,
without time for long explanation or any round-about seductions, ran
forward, laying her hand on his arm and blurting out:

"But I've refused him."

I do not know what Newhaven thinks now, but I sometimes doubt whether
he would not have been wiser to shake off the detaining hand, and
pursue his lonely way, first into the house, and ultimately to his
aunt's. But (to say nothing of the twenty thousand a year, which,
after all, and be you as romantic as you may please to be, is not a
thing to be sneezed at) Trix's face, its mingled eagerness and shame,
its flushed cheeks and shining eyes, the piquancy of its unwonted
humility, overcame him. He stopped dead.

"I--I was obliged to give him an--an opportunity," said Miss Trix,