‘And why should not we be at the House, if you will let me hope?’ cried Oswald. ‘I don’t want to skulk away! Yes, I will go and hide myself somewhere if you will not hear me. I shall not care what becomes of me. But Agnes----’ ‘Oh, Mr. Meredith! Go, please. I cannot think it is right. I--don’t understand you. I ought not to listen to you--in this dress; and I have only begun the work.’ ‘There are other kinds of work. There is the natural work. Is not a wife better than a sister?’ Agnes lighted up with the sudden flash which was characteristic of her. She raised her eyes to him glowing with indignant fire, her face suffused with colour. ‘Better?’ she said; ‘better to live for one’s self and one other than for the poor and helpless and the miserable! Oh! do you know what you say? You are a tempter; you are not a true Christian! Better! when there are so many who are wretched and friendless in the world, with no one to care whether they live or die? Do you think a woman does better who tries to make _you_ happy than one who gives herself up for _them_?’ In the heat of this sudden burst of controversial eloquence, she turned aside into another street, which led out of the way of the House. Nothing else would have tempted her to such a curious breach of decorum; but the argument did, which filled her with indignant fervour. She did it only half consciously, by impulse, burning to know what he would answer, what plea he could bring up against her. But here Oswald’s cleverness failed him. He was not wise enough to see that a little argument would have led her on to any self-committal. He answered softly, with mistaken submission. ‘I will retract. I will say anything you please. No, not better; only happier. You would make me the most blessed of men; and what can you do for the poor? So little; everybody says, so little! But for me there would be no limit to what you could do. I have the most need of conversion. Ah! let your mission be me!’ Agnes started and came to herself. She looked round her, alarmed and scared, when she knew, yet only half knew, that she had left the direct road. ‘I have taken the wrong turn,’ she said, with confusion. ‘Mr. Meredith, let us forget that we have ever met. How could I turn back, having just put my hand to the plough? Oh, it is very weak and wicked of me, but I do not want the Sister to see you. She will think--but you have been kind, and I will say good-by here.’ ‘Do you want to say good-by? Why should we forget we have ever met? Tell me to forget that I am born!’ ‘Oh, no, no; it is not like that. Mr. Meredith, we have only known each other four or five--a few weeks.’ ‘Six--I have kept closer count than you.’