"I know--and I am sorry. Her speech this evening--all the latter part of it--was the speech of an Anarchist. And the first half was a tissue of misstatements. I happen to know something about the facts she dealt with." "Of course you take a different view!" "I _know_," he said, quietly--a little sternly. "Miss Marvell either does not know, or she wilfully misrepresents." "You can't prove it!" "I think I could. And as to that man--Mr. Lathrop--but you know what I think." They both fell silent. Through all his own annoyance and disgust, Winnington was sympathetically conscious of what she too must be feeling--chafed and thwarted, at every turn, by his legal power over her actions, and by the pressure of his male will. He longed to persuade her, convince her, soothe her; but what chance for it, under the conditions she had chosen for her life? The motor drew up at the door of the Abbey, and Winnington turned on the light. "I am afraid I can't help you out. Can you manage?" She stooped anxiously to look at his wrist. "It's bleeding worse again! I am sure I could improve that bandage. Do come in. My maid's got everything." He hesitated--then followed her into the house. The maid was summoned, and proved an excellent nurse. The wound was properly bandaged, and the arm put in a sling. Then, as the maid withdrew, Delia and her guardian were left standing together in the drawing-room, lit only by a dying gleam of fire, and a single lamp. "Good-night," said Winnington, gently. "Don't be the least alarmed about Miss Marvell. The train doesn't arrive for ten minutes yet. Thank you for looking after me so kindly." Delia laughed--but it was a sound of distress. Suddenly he stooped, lifted her hand, and kissed it. "What you are doing seems to me foolish--and _wrong!_ I am afraid I must tell you so plainly," he said, with emotion. "But although I feel like that--my one wish--all the time--is--forgive me if it sounds patronising!--to help you--and stand by you. To see you in that horrid business to-night--made me--very unhappy. I am old-fashioned I suppose--but I could hardly bear it. I wish I could make you trust me a little!" "I do!" she said, choked. "I do--but I must follow my conscience." He shook his head, but said no more. She murmured good-night, and he went. She heard the motor drive away, and remained standing where he had left her, the hand he had kissed hanging at her side. She still felt the touch of his lips upon it, and as the blood rushed into her cheeks, her heart was conscious of new and strange emotions. She longed to go to him as a sister or a daughter might, and say--"Forgive me--understand me--don't despair of me!" The trance of feeling broke, and passed away. She caught up a cloak and went to the hall door to listen for Gertrude Marvell.