“You can’t help it,” he continued, with superb generosity. “I don’t blame you. He was first--you were meant for him. It isn’t your fault--or his. I am the fool, the meddler. You can’t mate through the newspaper. I ought to have known.” He went toward the door, his head down, his face gentle and strong. She started up. “You are not going?” “There is nothing to stay for.” “You don’t say one word of blame----” “It is no good, and I have no right. Go to him, dear.” “You forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive. I should have done as you have done. Not a woman in the world would hold me back from you, if you were free.” “But the wedding? What will people say?” “Let them say. That’s nothing.” “Those things are everything. You are going to live and die in this place. For your sake, not mine”--she looked lingeringly at the yellow fields and rainbow flower-beds--“we must tell Aunt Sophy a plausible story. I’ll write a note, tell her that Edred is ill--a long illness--and wants me. Later on, by degrees, you can let them know that I am never coming back.” “You’ll tell her that Edred is ill--a long illness--and wants you,” he repeated in a slow, painstaking voice, as if, for her sake, he was very anxious to remember. “Very well, I’ll try not to forget. Would you like me to drive you to the station this afternoon?” He saw the lightening of her face. “So soon! But I could be ready. I’ll start packing now.” She went crisply across the room. “But not you. Let Daborn drive.” “I’d rather come, if it’s the same to you. There’s a train at four.” “Four. Very well.” “We can have an early tea. You like your tea.” “Tea--yes.” “Take some flowers. There are plenty of eggs, too. Some of those early pullets are laying already, although the old birds are on the moult. He liked quince jam. Could you manage to pack a pot or so?” “Jethro!” Her keen voice made the name more a shrill, birdlike cry than a word. “I can’t bear to hear you talk so calmly. I would not mind so much if you looked the martyr. But you sound so every-day--quince jam, pullet eggs! And yet I know how bitterly you care.” “I must try not to. I’ve made a muddle. I hurried things when I should have let them alone.” “You’ll forget,” she said, with miserable lack of conviction. “We shall be--Edred and I--a bad dream. Never trouble to give us a thought.” “But I shall expect to hear from you; to see you, perhaps, if I go to London. I’ve often thought of a week in London. I haven’t been since my father died. We saw most of the sights, but missed the Doré Gallery. Everyone ought to go there.” She gasped. “You could come up, see us together--man and wife. You can talk of the Doré Gallery!” “Why not? I mustn’t lose sight of you, my mother’s kin.”