She spoke as though under pressure, her head thrown back, her face ivory within the black frame of the veil. "I--I shouldn't have made it." "That's not enough. I want to hear you say you regret it!" The light suddenly increased, and she saw him looking at her, his eyes bright and urgent, his attitude that of the strong yet mild judge, whose own moral life watches keenly for any sign of grace in the accused before him. She realised for an angry moment what his feeling must be--how deep and invincible, towards these "outrages" which she and Gertrude Marvell regarded by now as so natural and habitual--outrages that were calmly planned and organised, as she knew well, at the head offices of their society, by Gertrude Marvell among others, and acquiesced in--approved--by hundreds of persons like herself, who either shrank from taking a direct part in them, or had no opportunity of doing so. "But I shall soon make opportunities!--" she thought, passionately; "I'm not going to be a shirker!" Aloud she said in her stiffest manner--"I stand by my friends, Mr. Winnington, especially when they are ten times better and nobler than I!" His expression changed. He turned, like any courteous stranger, to playing the part of showman of the house. Once more a veil had fallen between them. He led her through the great suite of rooms on the ground-floor, the drawing-room, the Red Parlour, the Chinese room, the Library. They recalled her childish visits to the house with her grandmother, and a score of recollections, touching or absurd, rushed into her mind--but not to her lips. Dumbness had fallen on her;--nothing seemed worth saying, and she hurried through. She was conscious only of a rich confused impression of old seemliness and mellowed beauty,--steeped in fragrant and famous memories, English history, English poetry, English art, breathing from every room and stone of the house. "In the Red Parlour, Sidney wrote part of the 'Arcadia.'--In the room overhead Gabriel Harvey slept.--In the Porch rooms Chatham stayed--his autograph is there.--Fox advised upon all the older portion of the Library"--and so on. She heard Winnington's voice as though through a dream. What did it matter? She felt the house an oppression--as though it accused or threatened her. As they emerged from the library into a broad passage, Winnington noticed a garden door at the north end of the passage, and called to Daunt who was walking behind them. They went to look at it, leaving Delia in the corridor. "Not very secure, is it?" said Winnington, pointing to the glazed upper half of the door--"anyone might get in there." "I've told Sir Wilfrid, Sir, and sent him the measurements. There's to be an iron shutter." "H'm--that may take time. Why not put up something temporary?--cross-bars of some sort?" They came back towards Delia, discussing it. Unreasonably, absurdly, she held it an offence that Winnington should discuss it in her presence; her breath grew stormy.