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Again he laughed.

“I see you disapprove of me,” he said.

“I disapprove of what you have become,” she said.

“You think we might”—he glanced at the hut—“have been like this— you and I?”

She shook her head.

“You! no; never! You plucked a thing and looked at it till you had found out all you wanted to know about it, then you threw it away,” she said.

“Did I?” he asked. “And could your way never have been my way? I suppose not. ”

“Why should it?” she said. “I am a separate being. ”

“But surely two people sometimes go the same way,” he said.

“You took me away from myself,” she said.

He knew he had mistaken her, had taken her for something she was not. That was his fault, not hers.

“And did you always know?” he asked.

“No—you never let me know. You bullied me. I couldn’t help myself. I was glad when you left me, really. ”

“I know you were,” he said. But his face went paler, almost deathly luminous.

“Yet,” he said, “it was you who sent me the way I have gone. ”

“I!” she exclaimed, in pride.

“You wouldhave me take the Grammar School scholarship—and you would have me foster poor little Botell’s fervent attachment to me, till he couldn’t live without me—and because Botell was rich and influential. You triumphed in the wine-merchant’s offer to send me to Cambridge, to befriend his only child. You wanted me to rise in the world. And all the time you were sending me away from you— every new success of mine put a separation between us, and more for you than for me. You never wanted to come with me: you wanted just to send me to see what it was like. I believe you even wanted me to marry a lady. You wanted to triumph over society in me. ”

“And I am responsible,” she said, with sarcasm.

“I distinguished myself to satisfy you,” he replied.

“Ah!” she cried, “you always wanted change, change, like a child. ”

“Very well! And I am a success, and I know it, and I do some good work. But—I thought you were different. What right have you to a man?”

“What do you want?” she said, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

He looked back at her, his eyes pointed, like weapons.

“Why, nothing,” he laughed shortly.

There was a rattling at the outer latch, and the keeper entered. The woman glanced round, but remained standing, fur-cloaked, in the inner doorway. Syson did not move.

The other man entered, saw, and turned away without speaking. The two also were silent.

Pilbeam attended to his skins.

“I must go,” said Syson.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then I give you ‘To our vast and varying fortunes. ’” He lifted his hand in pledge.

“‘To our vast and varying fortunes,’” she answered gravely, and speaking in cold tones.

“Arthur!” she said.

The keeper pretended not to hear. Syson, watching keenly, began to smile. The woman drew herself up.

“Arthur!” she said again, with a curious upward inflection, which warned the two men that her soul was trembling on a dangerous crisis.

The keeper slowly put down his tool and came to her.

“Yes,” he said.

“I wanted to introduce you,” she said, trembling.

“I’ve met him a’ready,” said the keeper.

“Have you? It is Addy, Mr Syson, whom you know about. —This is Arthur, Mr Pilbeam,” she added, turning to Syson. The latter held out his hand to the keeper, and they shook hands in silence.

“I’m glad to have met you,” said Syson. “We drop our correspondence, Hilda?”

“Why need we?” she asked.

The two men stood at a loss.

“Isthere no need?” said Syson.

Still she was silent.

“It is as you will,” she said.

They went all three together down the gloomy path.