nner of Cordova, and not of
Margaret.

Once upon a time, when his exaggerated sense of honour was driving him
away, she had said rather foolishly that if he left her she would not
answer for herself. She had felt a little desperate, but he had told
her quietly that he, who knew her, would answer for her, and her mood
had changed, and she had been herself again. But it was different this
time. He meant much more than he said; he meant that she had lowered
herself, and she was sure that he would not 'answer' for her now. On
the contrary, it was his intention to let her know that he no longer
believed in her, and perhaps no longer respected or trusted her. Yet,
little by little, during their last separation, his belief in her, and
his respect for her, had grown in her estimation, because they alone
still connected her with the maidenliness and feminine refinement in
which she had grown up. Lushington had broken a link that had been
strong.

She was at one of the cross-roads of her life; she was at a turning
point in the labyrinth, after passing which it would be hard to come
back and find the right way. Perhaps old Griggs could help her if it
occurred to him; but that was unlikely, for he had reached the age
when men who have seen much take people as they find them. Logotheti
would certainly not help her, though she knew instinctively that she
was still to him what she had always been, and that if he ever had the
opportunity he sought, her chances of escape would be small indeed.

Therefore she felt more lonely after Lushington had spoken than she
had ever felt since her parents had died, and much more desperate. But
nothing in the world would have induced her to let him know it, and
her anger against him rose slowly, and it was cold and enduring, as
that sort of resentment is. She was so proud that it gave her the
power to smile carelessly after a minute's silence, and she asked him
some perfectly idle questions about the news of the day. He should
not know that he had hurt her very much; he should not suspect for a
moment that she wished him to go away.

She rose presently and turned up the lights, rang the bell, and
when the window curtains were drawn, and tea was brought, she did
everything she could to make Lushington feel at his ease; she did it
out of sheer pride, for she did not meditate any vengeance, but was
only angry, and wished to get rid of him without a scene.

At last he rose to go away, and when he h