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But she could not control him as she thought she could. He had a keen memory stinging his mind, a new set of sensations working in his consciousness. Something new was alert in him. At the back of his reticent, guarded mind he kept his secret alive and vivid. She was at his mercy, for he was unscrupulous, his standard was not her standard.

He looked at her curiously. She was not beautiful, her nose was too large, her chin was too small, her neck was too thin. But her skin was clear and fine, she had a high-bred sensitiveness. This queer, brave, high-bred quality she shared with her father. The charity boy could see it in her tapering fingers, which were white and ringed. The same glamour that he knew in the elderly man he now saw in the woman. And he wanted to possess himself of it, he wanted to make himself master of it. As he went about through the old pottery-yard, his secretive mind schemed and worked. To be master of that strange soft delicacy such as he had felt in her hand upon his face,–this was what he set himself towards. He was secretly plotting.

He watched Matilda as she went about, and she became aware of his attention, as of some shadow following her. But her pride made her ignore it. When he sauntered near her, his hands in his pockets, she received him with that same commonplace kindliness which mastered him more than any contempt. Her superior breeding seemed to control him. She made herself feel towards him exactly as she had always felt: he was a young boy who lived in the house with them, but was a stranger. Only, she dared not remember his face under her hand. When she remembered that, she was bewildered. Her hand had offended her, she wanted to cut it off. And she wanted, fiercely, to cut off the memory in him. She assumed she had done so.

One day, when he sat talking with his ‘uncle’, he looked straight into the eyes of the sick man, and said:

‘But I shouldn’t like to live and die here in Rawsley.’

‘No–well–you needn’t,’ said the sick man.

‘Do you think Cousin Matilda likes it?’

‘I should think so.’

‘I don’t call it much of a life,’ said the youth. ‘How much older is she than me, Uncle?’

The sick man looked at the young soldier.

‘A good bit,’ he said.

‘Over thirty?’ said Hadrian.

‘Well, not so much. She’s thirty-two.’

Hadrian considered a while.

‘She doesn’t look it,’ he said.

Again the sick father looked at him.

‘Do you think she’d like to leave here?’ said Hadrian.

‘Nay, I don’t know,’ replied the father, restive.

Hadrian sat still, having his own thoughts. Then in a small, quiet voice, as if he were speaking from inside himself, he said:

‘I’d marry her if you wanted me to.’

The sick man raised his eyes suddenly, and stared. He stared for a long time. The youth looked inscrutably out of the window.

‘You!‘ said the sick man, mocking, with some contempt. Hadrian turned and met his eyes. The two men had an inexplicable understanding.

‘If you wasn’t against it,’ said Hadrian.

‘Nay,’ said the father, turning aside, ‘I don’t think I’m against it. I’ve never thought of it. But–But Emmie’s the youngest.’

He had flushed, and looked suddenly more alive. Secretly he loved the boy.

‘You might ask her,’ said Hadrian.

The elder man considered.

‘Hadn’t you better ask her yourself?’ he said.

‘She’d take more notice of you,’ said Hadrian.

They were both silent. Then Emmie came in.

For two days Mr. Rockley was excited and thoughtful. Hadrian went about quietly, secretly, unquestioning. At last the father and daughter were alone together. It was very early morning, the father had been in much pain. As the pain abated, he lay still, thinking.

‘Matilda!’ he said suddenly, looking at his daughter.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said.

‘Ay! I want you to do something–‘

She rose in anticipation.

‘Nay, sit still. I want you to marry Hadrian–‘