‘Oh, Clive!’ she said.  ‘Whatever are we to do?’

‘Do?’ he replied, enchanted by her instinctive feminine surrender and reliance upon him, which seemed the more precious in that creature so proud and reserved to all others.  ‘Do!  Where is your father?’

‘Reading the Signal in the dining-room.’

Every business man in the Five Towns reads the Staffordshire Signal from beginning to end every night.

’I will see him.  Of course he is your father; but I will just tell him—­as decently as I can—­that neither you nor I will stand this nonsense.’

‘You mustn’t—­you mustn’t see him.’

‘Why not?’

‘It will only lead to unpleasantness.’

‘That can’t be helped.’

‘He never, never changes when once he has said a thing.  I know him.’

Clive was arrested by something in her tone, something new to him, that in its poignant finality seemed to have caught up and expressed in a single instant that bitterness of a lifetime’s renunciation which falls to the lot of most women.

‘Will you come outside?’ he asked in a different voice.

Without replying, she led the way down the long garden, which ended in an ivy-grown brick wall and a panorama of the immense valley of industries below.  It was a warm, cloudy evening.  The last silver tinge of an August twilight lay on the shoulder of the hill to the left.  There was no moon, but the splendid watch-fires of labour flamed from ore-heap and furnace across the whole expanse, performing their nightly miracle of beauty.  Trains crept with noiseless mystery along the middle distance, under their canopies of yellow steam.  Further off the far-extending streets of Hanbridge made a map of starry lines on the blackness.  To the south-east stared the cold, blue electric lights of Knype railway-station.  All was silent, save for a distant thunderous roar, the giant breathing of the forge at Cauldon Bar Ironworks.

Eva leaned both elbows on the wall and looked forth.

‘Do you mean to say,’ said Clive, ’that Mr. Brunt will actually stick by what he has said?’

‘Like grim death,’ said Eva.

‘But what’s his idea?’

‘Oh! how can I tell you?’ she burst out passionately.

’Perhaps I did wrong.  Perhaps I ought to have warned him earlier—­said to him, “Father, Clive Timmis is courting me!” Ugh!  He cannot bear to be surprised about anything.  But yet he must have known....  It was all an accident, Clive—­all an accident.  He saw you leaving the shop yesterday.  He would say he caught you leaving the shop—­sneaking off like——­’

‘But, Eva——­’

’I know—­I know!  Don’t tell me!  But it was that, I am sure.  He would resent the mere look of things, and then he would think and think, and the notion of your uncle’s shop would occur to him again, after all these years.  I can see his thoughts as plain ...  My dear, if he had not seen you at Machin Street yesterday, or if you had seen him and spoken to him, all might have gone right.  He would have objected, but he would have given way in a day or two.  Now he will never give way!  I asked you just now what was to be done, but I knew all the time that there was nothing.’