saturday’s wonders, sunday thrills—with her declared lover monumentally in the rectory pew and his relatives all unconscious that they were soon to be hers (hers, mary middleham’s: o altitudo!)—did not release her, in her own mind, from the promise of sunday afternoon. not only had she promised, not only had she something to tell him, a solid base for her feet from which to regard him, and a sanctuary in which to hide, from which to emerge at will, ready for any encounter; not only so, but she must put herself right with him. he had seen her, must have seen her, in a delicate situation—nothing to him, of course, but somehow everything to her. she could not, she said, afford that he should deem her a girl of the sort—to be kissed in a doorway by anybody, gentleman or no gentleman. there were reasons—special reasons for it; and since, as the fact was, these reasons did not now seem as cogent as they had yesterday, there was nothing for it but to cry them over and over to herself. “engaged to be married—engaged to be married—to mr. germain—to mr. germain of southover house. and he loves me dearly—and i love him.” so she pedalled and sang.

racing with her thoughts, the bicycle took her to the common of mere that blazing sunday afternoon. his eyes looked up from their work, twinkled and laughed at her. “so it’s you, then! i thought you wouldn’t come.” he was mending the sole of a shoe, and resumed his cheerful tap-tapping directly he had greeted her.

she stood leaning on her bicycle, watching his work. her new estate sat in full possession of her eyes.

“yes, i’ve come. i couldn’t come earlier.”

he paused, hammer in air. “it was as well you didn’t. i’ve been out lunching.”

she knew that very well, and with any other man would have pretended that she did not. some pretty fishing would have followed—with him out of the question.

“at the park?” she said—turning up the statement into a question by habit.

“precisely there,” said he, and returned to his shoe. no fishing in such waters as his—but he looked up again presently with a laugh in his eyes. “i met your mr. germain,” he told her—and she flamed.

“i wanted to tell you—i felt that i must. i am—i was with him when you——”

he nodded over his shoe leather. “so i supposed.”

“that was mr. germain—you know——”

“i know. i recognized him. i had been to reconnoitre the park——”

she could not, perhaps, have accounted to herself for her next question. “do you like miss de speyne?”

he frankly considered it for a while, looking at the questioner without discomfort—to himself at least. “yes. yes, i think i do. she’s a fine young woman and she’s simple. she’s herself. yes, i like her very much. she can paint flowers—nothing else. but she paints flowers well.” so much for the honourable hertha de speyne.

“may i sit down?” mary was quite at her ease again. he jumped up with apologies, and brought her cushions. bingo came up, wagging his back, and, being caressed, sat up stiffly beneath her hand. she watched her friend fill his pipe and collected herself for her affair. then she lowered her eyes, and began, hardening her voice.

“i came because i wanted your opinion, as i hoped—i mean as i thought i possibly might. you remember that i said i should like to talk to you? well, i didn’t know then—for certain—what i should have to say. but—” she stopped there.

“but now you do? is that it?”

“yes. shall you think it strange of me?”

“i don’t know—but it’s very unlikely. if i do i’ll tell you. go on.”

“it’s about mr. germain. do you remember that i told you—he’d been kind to me?”

his eyes were narrow, but upon her, critically upon her. he smoked slowly, as if he enjoyed every fibre of the weed on fire.

“yes, i remember.”

“he was so kind—he went so out of his way to be kind that i was puzzled. i could not help fancying——”

“naturally. well?”

she plunged. “he has asked me to marry him.”

her friend took his pipe out of his mouth, looked long at it, and put it back again.

“i saw that he had—yesterday.” he might have seen pride shine in her eyes at that compliment. but, instead of looking for that, he asked, “and is he going to?”

“i don’t know,” she answered, pondering.

“but does he think he is?”

she fondled bingo, who threw up his head, eyed her gratefully and accepted the compliment. then she answered him.

“yes—i believe he does.” during the ensuing pause their eyes met for a moment.

“he’s very much in love with the idea,” said the gentleman-tinker. “he was highly uplifted to-day—anybody could have guessed.” he added, as if to himself, “it may do. it sometimes does.”

she considered this, then threw up her head and was eloquent. “it won’t do—it can’t. that makes me unhappy, instead of happy. i know that it is not right—whatever you may say of—of there being no classes. i feel that there are classes, more than enough, perhaps; but there they are and we can’t help them. whatever you may say about specimens in boxes, mr. germain is a gentleman, and my father is not; and his first wife was a lady—a lady diana something—and his second, if it’s me, won’t be—but just a little ignorant person who has worked for her living since she was sixteen, and seen all sorts of people—and—and—done all sorts of things. no, no, it can’t be right—for him, at any rate. how am i to satisfy him, try as i will? why, there’s mrs. james at the rectory—she terrifies me. i feel like a lump of earth beside her—and she likes me to—she looks and looks down at me until i do. and i fight against it—i try to meet her—i try to be myself, and to feel that i am as good as she is—and all the time i know i’m not. and yet—he’s extremely kind—nobody could have spoken more gently than he did. he made me cry—he did, you know. i couldn’t help it—and i had no answer for him and so—and so he thinks that i shall marry him. but i don’t know whether i dare—i promise you i don’t.”

he watched her gravely, nodding his head from time to time; and at the end he smiled doubtfully.

“well,” he said, “and i don’t know whether you dare. i don’t know, you know, but i should say that you could dare most things you had set your heart on.”

her eyes quickened. “my heart is not set on it. i was very excited yesterday—any girl in my position would be—oh, most wonderful! but—if i could—if i dared, i should run away. i promise you.”

he regarded her kindly. “well, then,” he said, “run.” she stared—their eyes met—hers fell first. “no, no. i mustn’t. he expects me now—besides, he has—no, i belong to him now—if he wants me.”

the gentleman-tinker got up—appeared to be annoyed. he took a stride or two up and down the road. “this is against conscience—good god, it’s against nature. it’s why i loathe marriage, why i would never marry. it’s all feudal—it’s the law of real property. you are in a market—he buys you with a kind word and a—look here now—” and he faced her, frowning. “will nothing teach you your value—will nothing give you respect for yourself?” he turned away abruptly. “i beg your pardon. i’ve no right to talk to you like this.”

she forgot to be involved—forgot that she was involved—in his condemnation. “please talk to me—please to make me understand,” she said, but he wanted a good deal of persuasion. no, no. it has nothing to do with him; he should only make mischief—had made too much already; and, said he, finally, “i can’t afford it. i am rather prone, i believe, to get interested in other people’s affairs—and it interrupts my own confoundedly.”

“i’m very sorry,” she said, prettily contrite. he bit his cheek. “not your fault, of course—all mine. i got interested in you when i found you in the wire—highly romantic that sort of thing. and—and—so it’s gone on. well—” he looked at her anxiously. “well, i shall do harm, i’m certain; but i’ll tell you what i think if you insist on it.” she clapped her hands, glowed and sparkled like a diamond. she looked bewitchingly pretty.

“please, please! i won’t speak a word until you’ve done.”

he sat, and began slowly.

“i stick to my opinion of classes, of course. you aren’t in a position to judge; you’ve never had a ghost of a chance. as far as men go, there are only two classes—men who can behave and men who can’t. my father taught me when i was a boy to call all men men, and all women ladies. there was the man who swept the crossing, and the man who sat on the bench; but i remember that i got into a row for talking about the ‘woman’ who sold matches. ‘all women are ladies unless you know to the contrary,’ said my father. ‘don’t you ever forget that!’ and i never did. if you’ll forgive me, there’s nothing in what you say about your own unworthiness and germain’s magnanimity except one thing—and that is, that you, who have everything to gain, are the last person to admit what is so obviously true. and you are not quite honest. you don’t fear yourself really—you are confident in your inmost heart that you can learn what you suppose to be solemn duties. but—” he collected himself for his but, while she hung her detected head.

“but he, mind you, is persuaded—and it’s you who are helping him to believe—that he is a superior person doing you an enormous honour. he calls it kindness, of course, and so do you—oh, so do you! and that’s what he’s in love with mostly—the idea of exalting you, putting you on a pedestal, kneeling, making sacrifice, burning incense. he’s full of it—he was trembling with it to-day—and he’ll do it, i’m certain, and then retire into his inner chamber and beat his breast and cry to his soul, ‘how lovely she is—how sensitive to these wonderful honours! i put her there, o god! i did it—under thee! lord, i thank thee for this glorious work which is mine.’ i suppose you think i’m a maniac. i’m frightfully sane. . . .”

“he’ll be as happy as a king, like his betters before him, cophetua i., cophetua ii.—the whole dynasty. that’s his point of view, you know, and it’s not a bad one. it’s very artistic. old tennyson saw that. but before you lend yourself to it—a girl like—well, any girl you please—i do think you should ask yourself where you come in. how much worship can you stand? how long can you be sensitive to benefits and honours? how long before they become matters of course? how long before you want the real thing? because i need not tell you that there is a real thing——”

had he not broken off here she would not have met his eyes—nor he hers. the saying would have been merged in the general drift of his harangue, which was serious enough. but she caught at the break, caught at the words, caught at the sense, looked at him seriously, looked at him full. his eyes, being upon her, met hers, and held them. she was confounded. that moment of interconsciousness was fully charged: it is much to his credit that he slipped out without abruptness.

he took a turn up and down the road before he went on.

“a man will go through life possessed with an idea, and be absolutely happy with it. don’t have any fears on his account. it is all that he wants: the woman’s only business is to lend herself to it. but we’re considering the woman—and there’s this great difference. they don’t like ideas at all. they like things—that they can touch, stroke, handle, nurse, wash and dress. if you find such things, you are all right. but if you don’t——”

and then he stopped—in spite of her. she tried him with a “well, what then?” but could get nothing more from him.

“oh, i hope you will. let’s hope so,” was all he would say.

she nursed her chin with her hand; he, at his length beside her, plucked at the turf. too many confidences had passed for her to be reticent now. “you say you will never marry,” she began.

“never,” he said. “the state’s impossible, wrong from the beginning. it puts the woman hopelessly in the wrong. it’s monstrous.”

“then you think—yes, i believe you are right. at any rate, i mustn’t let mr. germain——”

he sat up. “look here,” he said. “germain will make you a very good husband. he’s a true man.”

she was busy with bingo, to bingo’s quiet satisfaction. “yes, i’m sure of that. but——”

her tongue was tied, and so now was his. the ensuing silence was not comfortable to either, and the instinct of a good girl made her end it at any price. rising sedately, she held out her hand.

“good-bye—and thank you very much. you have made me think.”

he laughed as he shook hands. “you have made me think, too. good-bye. all happiness.”

she did not reply to that, but said, “we meet again, i hope.”

“sure to,” he said. “this is an island.” then she must needs go.

of the two of them the man was the more perturbed—but he had his remedy. after a frowning quarter-hour he was up and packing his tent. within the hour he was on the road.

with her, no revolt against what was to be. there is no revolt visible under the sun for the poor. when mr. germain called the next morning to bid her farewell she received him with all the virginal airs of the consciously possessed. he measured her fourth finger. a pretty ceremony.