Thus when she found herself riding alone in Rotten Row with Siph Dunn, she was neither disconcerted nor displeased.  He had been talking to her about Lord De Guest, whom he had known—­for Siph knew everybody—­and Lily had begun to wonder whether he knew John Eames.  She was making up her mind that she would say something about the Crawley matter—­not intending of course to mention John Eames’s name—­when suddenly her tongue was paralysed and she could not speak.  At that moment they were standing near a corner, where a turning path made an angle in the iron rails, Mr Dunn having proposed that they should wait there for a few minutes before they returned home, as it was probable that Bernard and Miss Dunstable might come up.  They had been there for some five or ten minutes, and Lily had asked her first question about the Crawleys—­inquiring of Mr Dunn whether he had heard of a terrible accusation which had been made against a clergyman in Barsetshire—­when on a sudden her tongue was paralysed.  As they were standing, Lily’s horse was turned towards the diverging path, whereas Mr Dun was looking the other way, towards Achilles and Apsley house.  Mr Dunn was nearer the railings, but though they were thus looking different ways they were so placed that each could see the face of the other.  Then, on a sudden, coming slowly towards her along the diverging path and leaning on the arm of another man, she saw—­Adolphus Crosbie.

She had never seen him since a day on which she had parted from him with many kisses—­with warm, pressing, eager kisses—­of which she had been nowhat ashamed.  He had then been to her almost as her husband.  She had trusted him entirely, and had thrown herself into his arms with full reliance.  There is often much of reticence on the part of a woman towards a man to whom she is engaged, something also of shamefacedness occasionally.  There exists a shadow of doubt, at least of that hesitation which shows that in spite of vows the woman knows that a change may come, and that provision for such possible steps backward should always be within her reach.  But Lily had cast all such caution to the winds.  She had given herself to the man entirely, and had determined that she would sink or swim, stand or fall, live or die, by him and by his truth.  He had been as false as hell.  She had been in his arms, clinging to him, kissing him, swearing that her only pleasure in the world was to be with him—­with him, her treasure, her promised husband; and within a month, a week, he had been false to her.  There had come upon her crushing tidings, and she had for days wondered at herself that they had not killed her.  But she had lived, and had forgiven him, which had been answered as the reader knows.  But she had never seen him since the day on which she had parted from him at Allington, without a doubt as to his faith.  Now he was before her, walking on the footpath, almost within reach of her whip.