yet desire called to her
from the sunlit ways. Slowly down the stairs, slowly to the end of
Walnut Tree Walk.

Look at that white billow of cloud on its fathomless ocean! Even now
there were clouds like that high up over Eastbourne. One such had hung
above her as she drove with Mrs. Ormonde up Beachy Head. At this moment
the sea was singing; this breeze, which swept the path of May, made
foam flash upon the pebbled shore. Sky and water met on that line of
mystery; far away and beyond was the coast of France.

More quickly now. Whither was she tending? She had at first kept
southwards, straight along Kennington Road; now she had crossed, and
was turning into a street which might--only might--conduct her round
into Brook Street. Desire was in her feet; she could no longer check
them; she must hasten on whithersoever they led.

Oh, why had she left the house! Why had Mrs. Grail--a cruel
mother--bidden her go forth when her will was to stay, and work, and
forget! Could she not stop, even now, and turn?

She stopped. Was it likely that he would be there this morning? No, not
very likely. He would finish all the books yesterday. Yet others might
have been brought.

If he would give her one long look--the look for which she
fainted--then that should be the end. That should be the very end. She
would not play with danger after that. For now she knew that it was
danger; that thought of Lyddy had made everything terribly clear. He
would never know anything of what had been in her foolish heart, and it
would cost him nothing to look once at her with a rich, kind look. He
was all kindness. He had done, was doing, things such as no other man
in his position ever thought of. She would like to tell him the
immeasurable worship with which his nobleness inspired her; but the
right words would never come to her, and the wrong would be so near her
lips. No, one look for him, and therewith an end.

The library was within sight; she had walked very quickly. If he should
not be there! Her hand was on the door; the bitterness of it if the
door proved to be locked.

It was open. She was in the little entrance hall. At the door of the
library itself she stood listening.

Was that a sound of someone within? No, only the beat of her own heart,
the throb which seemed as if it must kill her. She _could_ not open the
door! She had not the strength to stand. The pain, the pain!

Yet she had turned the handle, and had entered. He was in the