‘Not to the world.  An unacknowledged wife is a slave, surely.’

‘You step down, if you take the step.’

’From what?  Once I did desire that station—­had an idea it was glorious.  I despise it:  or rather the woman who had the desire.’

‘But the step down is into the working world.’

’I have means to live humbly.  I want no more, except to be taught to work.’

’So says the minute.  Years are before you.  You have weighed well, that you attract?’

She reddened and murmured:  ‘How small!’ Her pout of spite at her attractions was little simulated.

’Beauty and charm are not small matters.  You have the gift, called fatal.  Then—­looking right forward—­you have faith in the power of resistance of the woman living alone?’

He had struck at her breast.  From her breast she replied.

’Hear this of me.  I was persecuted with letters.  I read them and did not destroy them.  Perhaps you saved me.  Looking back, I see weakness, nothing worse; but it is a confession.’

’Yes, you have courage.  And that comes of a great heart.  And therein lies the danger.’

‘Advise me of what is possible to a lonely woman.’

‘You have resolved on the loneliness?’

‘It means breathing to me.’

‘You are able to see that Lord Ormont is a gentleman?’

‘A chivalrous gentleman, up to the bounds of his intelligence.’

The bounds of his intelligence closed their four walls in a rapid narrowing slide on Aminta’s mind, and she exclaimed: 

’If only to pluck flowers in fields and know their names, I must be free!  I say what one can laugh at, and you are good and don’t.  Is the interrogatory exhausted?’

‘Aminta, my beloved, if you are free, I claim you.’

‘Have you thought—?’

The sense of a dissolving to a fountain quivered through her veins.

‘Turn the tables and examine me.’

’But have you thought—­oh!  I am not the girl you loved.  I would go through death to feel I was, and give you one worthy of you.’

’That means what I won’t ask you to speak at present but I must have proof.’

He held out a hand, and hers was laid in his.

There was more for her to say, she knew.  It came and fled, lightened and darkened.  She had yielded her hand to him here on land, not with the licence and protection of the great holiday salt water; and she was trembling from the run of his blood through hers at the pressure of hands, when she said in undertones:  ‘Could we—­we might be friends.’

‘Meet and part as friends, you and I,’ he replied.

His voice carried the answer for her, his intimate look had in it the unfolding of the full flower of the woman to him, as she could not conceal from such eyes; and feeling that, she was all avowal.

‘It is for life, Matthew.’

‘My own words to myself when I first thought of the chance.’