out of England for a week or two--perhaps for longer.'

It was wrong--all wrong. In spite of himself he could not but admit a
note of pathos. The automatic voice of politeness would not come at his
bidding. He should have left her on the other side of the bridge, where
the harsh bells allowed no delicacies of tone.

'To France?' she asked.

'No. To an island very near France. I must not keep you standing here,
Miss Trent. It is very cold.'

Yes, the wind was cold, but perspiration covered his face.

'Please--only a minute. May I go to the library and do some more of the
books? Are they all finished?'

'No. There's still one case of them, and more will be coming. Certainly
you may go there if you wish.'

Her voice fell.

'But I shan't know how to put them. No, I can't do it alone.'

'I shall write to Mr. Grail, and tell him what I have been doing. You
can help him.'

'Yes.'

The monosyllable fell from her like a whisper of despair. But the
utterance of Grail's name had brought Egremont the last impulse he
needed.

'When I come back,' he said, 'I shall find you in your new home. As I
shan't see you again, let me say now how much I hope that you will live
there a long time and very happily. Good-bye, Miss Trent.'

Surely that was formal and automatic enough. Not one more word, not one
more glance at her face. He had touched her hand, had raised his hat,
was gone.

She stood gazing after him until, in a minute or two, he was lost in
the dark street behind the wharfs. So suddenly! He had scarcely said
good-bye--so poor a good-bye! She had vexed him with her importunities;
he wished to show her that she had not behaved in the way that pleased
him. Scarcely a good-bye!

She went to the end of the bridge, and there crept into a dark place
whither no eye could follow her. Her strength was at an end. She fell
to her knees; her head lay against something hard and cold; a sob
convulsed her, and then in the very anguish of desolation she wept. The
darkness folded her; she could lie here on the ground and abandon
herself to misery. She wept her soul from her eyes.

But for Egremont the struggle was not over. He had scarcely passed out
of her sight when fear held his steps. Thyrza must not be left there
alone. That face of hers, looking like marble, threatened despair. How
could he leave her so far from home, in the night, by the river?

He went back. He knew what such return meant. It was defeat after all.
He