him grasp the chair convulsively. When he
recovered himself and looked at Sidwell there was a faint smile on her
lips, inexpressibly gentle.

'That's the rough outline of my projects,' he said, in his ordinary
voice, moving a few steps away. 'You see that I count much on fortune;
at the best, it may be years before I can get my country living.'

With a laugh, he came towards her and offered his hand for good-bye.
Sidwell rose.

'You have interested me very much. Whatever assistance it may be in my
father's power to offer you, I am sure you may count upon.'

'I am already much indebted to Mr. Warricombe's kindness.'

They shook hands without further speech, and Peak went his way.

For an hour or two he was powerless to collect his thoughts. All he had
said repeated itself again and again, mixed up with turbid comments,
with deadly fears and frantic bursts of confidence, with tumult of
passion and merciless logic of self-criticism. Did Sidwell understand
that sentence: 'I have dared to hope that I shall not always be alone'?
Was it not possible that she might interpret it as referring to some
unknown woman whom he loved? If not, if his voice and features had
betrayed him, what could her behaviour mean, except distinct
encouragement? 'You have interested me very much.' But could she have
used such words if his meaning had been plain to her? Far more likely
that her frank kindness came of misconception. She imagined him the
lover of some girl of his own 'station'--a toiling governess, or some
such person; it could not enter into her mind that he 'dared' so
recklessly as the truth implied.

But the glow of sympathy with which she heard his immeasurable scorn:
there was the spirit that defies artificial distances. Why had he not
been bolder? At this rate he must spend a lifetime in preparing for the
decisive moment. When would another such occasion offer itself?

Women are won by audacity; the poets have repeated it from age to age,
and some truth there must be in the saying. Suspicion of self-interest
could not but attach to him; that was inherent in the circumstances. He
must rely upon the sincerity of his passion, which indeed was beginning
to rack and rend him. A woman is sensitive to that, especially a woman
of Sidwell's refinement. In matters of the intellect she may be misled,
but she cannot mistake quivering ardour for design simulating love. If
it were impossible to see her again in private before she left Ex