Jeremy stumped up and down the room, furiously exclaiming that he did not care whether he was a gentleman or not. He was a man. That was enough for him, and ought to be enough for anybody. Mrs. Mumple was positively frightened into agreeing with him on this point. But however sound the point may be, relations with the rectory were broken off! What was to be done? Jeremy determined to go to town and lay before Grantley and Sibylla the unparalleled circumstances of the case. But first there was--well, there would be--one more stolen meeting. But it was not quite of the sort which might have been anticipated. Dora's levity was gone; she played with him no more. But neither did she follow the more probable course, and, under the influence of grief and the pain of separation, give the rein to her feelings, acknowledge her love, and exchange her vows for his. The old-fashioned standards had their turn; evidently the rectory upbraidings had been very severe. Every disobedience, every trick, every broken promise rose up in judgment, and declared the sentence to be just, however severe. Jeremy was at a loss how to face this. He had been so convinced that nature was with them, and that nature spelt rectitude. He was aghast at a quasi-theological and entirely superstitious view that no good or happiness could come out of a friendship (Dora adhered obstinately to this word) initiated in such a way. He refused to recognise her wickedness and even his own. When she announced her full acceptance of the edict, her determination to evince penitence by absolute submission, he could only burst out: "They haven't been cruel to you?" "Cruel? No! They've been most--most gentle. I've come to see how wrong it was." "Yet you're here!" He could not resist the retort. "For the last time--to say good-bye. And if you really care at all, you must do as I wish." "But--I may write to you?" "No, no, you mustn't." "You can't stop me thinking about you." "I shan't think of you. I shall pray to be able not to. I'm sure I can be strong." She had got this idea in her head. It was just the sort of idea that Sibylla might have got. She wanted to immolate herself. For such views in Sibylla Jeremy had always had denunciations ready. He had no denunciation now--only a despairing puzzle. "I can't accept that, and I won't! Do you love me?" "I'm going to keep my promise to say nothing. I've told you what I must do and what you must. I made up my mind--and--and then I went to the Sacrament to-day." Jeremy rubbed his wrinkled brow, eyeing this determined penitent very ruefully. A sudden return to rectitude is disconcerting in an accomplice. He did not know what to do. But his bulldog persistence was roused and his square jaw set obstinately. "Well, I shall consider what to do. I believe you love me, and I shan't sit down under this." "You must," she said. "And now, good-bye." He came towards her, but her raised hand stopped him.