It was late in the morning when she awoke in response to a persistent knocking at the door, on the opening of which she found a bare-armed country-girl who informed her without preamble that the gentleman was waiting breakfast for her downstairs. Having delivered this message, she retired, and Frances was left to perform what toilet she could with the very limited means at her command.

Her long sleep had refreshed her and she reflected with relief that her strength was certainly returning. The thought of meeting Montague Rotherby gave her no dismay. Very strangely he had ceased to possess any very great importance in her eyes, her only determination being to break off all connection with him as soon as possible.

Somehow, as she entered the room where he awaited her, she had a feeling that he had never really mattered very greatly in her life. It was only what he had stood for—the realization of that part of her being which had lain dormant for so long, the throbbing certainty that for her also even the stones of the wilderness might be turned into bread.

She came forward to him, faintly smiling. “Are you better to-day?” she said.

She did not offer her hand, but he took it. His face twitched a little at her matter-of-fact greeting. She saw at a glance that he looked ill.

“I’ve had a foul night,” he said. “But it’s not serious. I’m going up to town. Will you come with me?”

She looked at him, startled. “Oh, no!” she said.

He bit his lip. “Are you still disliking me?” he said.

It was a difficult question to answer, so little did he seem to matter now. She replied after a moment without any conscious feeling of any sort.

“No. But I am not coming up to town with you. Is there any particular reason why I should? You are quite able to go alone, I suppose?”

He stared at her for a few seconds, at first frowningly, then with a growing cynicism. At length: “What have they done to you at Tetherstones?” he said. “Since you accepted my protection last night—more, asked for it—I should have thought there was quite a good reason why you should be willing to come to town with me to-day.”

“Then you are quite wrong,” she replied very clearly. “I am not prepared to do anything of the kind.”

His frown deepened for a moment, then passed. “Shall we have breakfast?” he said. “Then you can tell me what your plans are. I am quite willing to fall in with them, whatever they may be.”

Her plans! What were her plans? The old pitiless problem presented itself. Had he meant, she asked herself, thus to bring home to her the fact of her dependence upon his good offices? What were her plans?

“I have got to think,” she said.

He nodded. “Perhaps I can be of use. I believe I can be. I’ll tell you—when we’ve finished breakfast—what I meant by suggesting that you should come up to London with me.”

She wondered if he were referring to the old plan of giving her secretary work. Or perhaps—though she hardly dared to think it—he was going to talk about her sketches and the possibilities therein contained. Against her will, that thought remained with her throughout the brief meal that they ate together. Upon one point only was she fully decided. She could live on charity no longer. She was resolutely determined to work for her living now, whatever that work might be.

She noticed that her companion ate very little, but he seemed fully master of himself, and she put away the feeling of uneasiness that tried to take possession of her. She would very thankfully have avoided any discussion of the events of the previous night, but she knew this to be inevitable. There were certain things that must be faced.

He pushed back his chair at length and spoke. “There’s only one way out of this tangle,” he said. “You must realize that as I do. But perhaps I have not made myself very clear. What I want you to do is to come up to town and—marry me. Will you do that?” He smiled at her with the words. “I’m sorry my courtship has hung fire for so long. But you will admit I am hardly responsible for that. And I am quite ready to make up for lost time now. What do you say to it?”

Frances was on her feet. He had roused her to feeling at last, but it was not such feeling as would have moved her a few weeks earlier. She had to stifle an almost overwhelming sense of indignation before she could speak.

“It is quite impossible,” she said then, with the utmost emphasis. “It is quite, quite impossible!”

“Impossible!” He stared at her. “But why? I understood it was what you wanted. I have a distinct recollection of your telling me so.”

She gasped at the recollection. It stung like a scorpion. “But that was long ago—long ago,” she said. “I don’t want it now! I couldn’t—possibly—contemplate such a thing now.”

“But why?” Rotherby insisted in astonishment. Then: “Perhaps you think I don’t love you. Is that it?”

“Oh, no!” She had begun to tremble. “That wouldn’t make any difference. At least, it is not that that has made me change my mind.”

“Ah!” he said with a sudden grimness. “Something else has done that.”

She was aware of a sharp pain at her heart that was almost unendurable. It took all her courage to meet his eyes. But she forced her voice to steadiness. “Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that I have come to know my own mind rather than that I have changed it. I thought I loved you, but it was a mistake. As to whether you ever loved me, I have no illusions at all. You never did.”

He got up. She saw his face twist as if he were in pain, but she knew that it was nothing physical that brought that look to his eyes, banishing the cynicism. “You seem very sure of that,” he said, and turned from her to light a cigarette. “So I am struck off the list, am I? Do you think you are altogether wise to do that—after what happened last night?”

The question surprised her, but it was wholly without malice. She could not take offence.

She answered him in a low voice, for the first time conscious of the dread of giving pain. “I have really no choice. I couldn’t do anything else.”

“What do you propose to do?” he said.

The old maddening question that she had had to answer so often. She tried to summon the old battling spirit, but it did not respond to her call. Her pride had been flung in the dust. What did she propose to do? Was there anything left that could ever restore her self-respect?

With a gesture that was quite unconsciously pathetic, she turned and went to the window in silence.

Rotherby smoked without speaking for a few seconds. If he felt the appeal of her hopelessness, he did not show it.

It was she who spoke first at length, without turning, and it was as though she uttered the words to herself with the dreary persistence of despair.

“I have got to begin again.”

“What are you going to do?” said Rotherby.

There was a quality of ruthlessness in his voice that pierced her despair. She swung round abruptly and faced him. There was majesty in her bearing, though with it was mingled the desperation of the hunted animal at bay.

“I will work,” she said. “I am not afraid of work. And I don’t care what I do.”

He came and joined her at the window. “Yes, it sounds all right,” he said. “But you haven’t the strength, and you know it.”

She shrank at the blunt words, for they struck her hard. She knew—it was useless to dispute it—that she lacked the strength.

“What is the use of saying that?” she said, protesting almost in spite of herself.

“Because I want you to see reason,” he rejoined, and she knew that he recognized his advantage, and would press it to the utmost. “Why don’t you want to marry me, Circe? You might do very much worse.”

She drew back from him. “Oh, don’t you see that it is out of the question?” she said. “I couldn’t marry you. I don’t love you.”

She saw his face harden. “That is plain speaking,” he said. “But I want to know why. What have I done to forfeit your love?”

“But I never loved you,” she said.

“Are you sure of that?” He spoke insistently. “You kissed me. You let me hold you in my arms.”

She flinched at the recollection, but she compelled herself to face him. “That was a mistake,” she said.

“You are sure of that?” said Rotherby.

“Quite sure,” she answered with simplicity.

He shifted his ground. “Are you also sure you know what love is?”

She clenched her hands as though in self-defence. “Every woman knows that,” she said.

“Then how did you come to make a mistake?” he countered.

Again she drew back as from the thrust of a dagger. “Oh, I suppose any woman might do that, but when once she has found it out—she doesn’t do it again.”

“How did you come to find out?” said Rotherby.

The inquisition was becoming intolerable, but still she faced him with resolution. “I have had a good many hours for thought,” she said. “And I have thought a good deal.”

“At Tetherstones?” he said.

“Yes.”

She saw a gleam of something she did not understand in his look. He seemed to be watching narrowly for something. He spoke abruptly.

“What I don’t understand—what I want to understand—is why you came with me last night.”

She answered him with an effort. “I had to get away.”

“Ah!” he said. “It wasn’t on my account then? You weren’t coming to meet me after all—in spite of my message? Did you get my message?”

She bent her head. “Yes. I had your message. Ruth told me. I was coming—I was coming—to meet you.”

“Yes?” he said. “Why were you so late?”

She hesitated. She could not tell him of that awful interview in the farm-kitchen. She could not bring herself so much as to mention Arthur’s name.

“I was coming to meet you,” she said again. “I didn’t mean to be late. But they are a strange family. I didn’t want them to know.”

“A very strange family!” said Rotherby. “Why should they know? Your affairs are your own.”

“Yes. But they have been very kind to me. They might think they had a right——”

“A right to shoot anyone from outside who wanted to speak to you?” he said.

“Oh, no—no!” she protested, feeling the hot colour rise overwhelmingly under his look. “That was a piece of madness.”

“You knew it was going to happen?” he questioned.

“No. I knew you were in some sort of danger. I didn’t know what. I was coming to warn you.”

Reluctantly she uttered the brief sentences. It was like the betrayal of her friends.

He seized upon the unwilling admission. “You knew? How did you know?”

She had to answer him. “One of the men on the farm told me. He didn’t say why—merely that you were in danger—that I had better warn you to go.”

“And then you decided to come with me?” said Rotherby.

“I decided that I couldn’t stay any longer,” she told him steadily. “You came up at the right moment, that was all.”

“What?” His eyes searched her again, his expression slowly changing. “You were running away too, were you?”

She wondered that he did not press the point of the mysterious attack upon him further, but was thankful that he refrained. She turned from the subject with relief. “I had to get away,” she said again.

“You’re not going back?” he questioned.

Something rose in her throat. Again she was conscious of that intolerable pain. She forced her utterance. “Never, no, never!” she said.

He made no comment, but turned away from her and paced the length of the room before he spoke again. Then, with his back to her, he paused.

“And yet you would sooner work yourself to death than marry me!”

She answered him immediately with feverish insistence. “Yes, I must work. I must work. I can’t go on being dependent. I can’t endure it.”

He turned round. “Perhaps—if you were independent—you might regard me differently,” he said.

She was silent.

He came slowly back to her. “Circe! May I hope for that?”

She looked at him helplessly.

He stood before her. “I swear to you,” he said forcibly, “that no one on this earth wants you as I do.”

A curious tremor of feeling went through her. She was stirred in spite of herself.

He put out his hand to her. “Circe!” His voice came oddly uncontrolled. “Won’t you—can’t you——”

She did not know what moved her—his obvious earnestness or her own utter friendlessness. But somehow her mood answered his. Her hand went into his grasp.

“But I must be independent first,” she said. It was the last effort of her pride. “You’ll help me to be that?”

“I’ll help you,” he said.