‘There is no longer any mystery.’

Everard made a movement of surprise.

‘Indeed?  You have discovered what it all meant?’

‘Yes, I know what it all meant.’

‘Can you gratify my not unnatural curiosity?’

’I can say nothing about it, except that I know how the misunderstanding arose.’

Rhoda was betraying the effort it had cost her to seem so self-possessed when she entered.  Her colour had deepened, and she spoke hurriedly, unevenly.

’And it didn’t occur to you that it would be a kindness, not inconsistent with your dignity, to make me in some way acquainted with this fact?’

‘I feel no uneasiness on your account.’

Everard laughed.

’Splendidly frank, as of old.  You really didn’t care in the least how much I suffered?’

‘You misunderstand me.  I felt sure that you didn’t suffer at all.’

’Ah, I see.  You imagined me calm in the assurance that I should some day be justified.’

‘I had every reason for imagining it,’ rejoined Rhoda.  ’Other wise, you would have given some sign.’

Of course he had deeply offended her by his persistent silence.  He had intended to do so first of all; and afterwards—­had thought it might be as well.  Now that he had got over the difficulty of the meeting he enjoyed his sense of security.  How the interview would end he know not; but on his side there would be nothing hasty, unconsidered, merely emotional.  Had Rhoda any new revelation of personality within her resources?—­that was the question.  If so, he would be pleased to observe it.  If not—­why, it was only the end to which he had long ago looked forward.

‘It was not for me to give any sign,’ he remarked.

‘Yet you have said that it is well to have reason on one’s side.’

Perhaps a softer note allowed itself to be detected in these words.  In any case, they were not plainly ironical.

’Admit, then, that an approach was due from me.  I have made it.  I am here.’

Rhoda said nothing.  Yet she had not an air of expectancy.  Her eye was grave, rather sad, as though for the moment she had forgotten what was at issue, and had lost herself in remoter thought.  Regarding her, Everard felt a nobility in her countenance which amply justified all he had ever felt and said.  But was there anything more—­any new power?

‘So we go back,’ he pursued, ’to our day at Wastwater.  The perfect day—­wasn’t it?’

‘I shall never wish to forget it,’ said Rhoda reflectively.

‘And we stand as when we quitted each other that night—­do we?’

She glanced at him.

‘I think not.’

‘Then what is the difference?’

He waited some seconds, and repeated the question before Rhoda answered.

‘You are conscious of no difference?’ she said.

’Months have lapsed.  We are different because we are older.  But you speak as if you were conscious of some greater change.’