Tension broke up in slightly hysterical laughter. She was already in better spirits. There was something exciting--exhilarating even--in the duel between herself and Winnington, which was implied in the conversation. His journey up to town, the look in his grey eyes meant--"I shall prevent you from doing what you are intending to do." But he could not prevent it. If he was the breakwater, she was the storm-wave, driven by the gale--by the wind from afar, of which she felt herself the sport, and sometimes the victim--without its changing her purpose in the least. "Only I shall not refuse food!" she thought. "I shall spare him that. I shall serve my sentence. It won't be long." But afterwards? Would she then be free? Free to follow Gertrude or not, according to her judgment? Would she have "purged" her promise--paid her shot--recovered the governance of herself? Her thoughts discussed the future, when, all in a moment, Winnington, watching her from behind his _Times_, saw a pale startled look. It seemed to be caused by something in the landscape. He turned his eyes to the window and saw that they were passing an old manor house, with a gabled front, standing above the line, among trees. What could that have had to do with the sudden contraction of the beautiful brow, the sudden look of terror--or distress? The house had a certain resemblance to Monk Lawrence. Had it reminded her of that speech in the Latchford marketplace from which he was certain she had recoiled, no less than he? "You'll let me take you to the flat? I've been over it once, but I should like to see it's in order." She hesitated, but how could she refuse? He put her into a taxi, having already dispatched her maid with the luggage in another, and they started. "I expect you'll find a lot of queer people there!" she said, trying to laugh. "At least you'll think them queer." "I shall like to see the people you are working with," he said, gravely. Half way to Westminster, he turned to her. "Miss Delia!--it's my plain duty to tell you--again--and to keep on telling you, even though it makes you angry, and even though I have no power to stop you, that in taking part in these doings to-morrow, you are doing a wrong thing, a grievously wrong thing! If I were only an ordinary friend, I should try to dissuade you with all my might. But I represent your father--and you know what he would have felt." He saw her lips tremble. But she spoke calmly, "Yes,--I know. But it can't be helped. We can't agree, Mr. Mark, and it's no good my trying to explain, any more--just yet!--" she added, in a lower tone. "'Just yet'? What do you mean by that?"