Janet did not answer, but shut herself in her room and, unlocking a drawer, took out of it a little jewelled trinket which young Gascoyne had given her, and kissing it passionately, burst into a flood of tears. The poor girl vaguely realised, if she refused to confess as much to herself, that her romance was doomed to a dismal ending. Though she loved Harry Gascoyne she had some dim perception that the glitter of his charm was largely pinchbeck. She also realised with true feminine instinct that she had thrown away the only weapon with which she might have won her battle, and induced him to raise her to his position by marriage. She was already terrified of what might happen, and lay awake at nights possessed by the fear of an approaching presence. She was haunted by the singing of the wind in the pine-wood where they had first kissed, and stronger and stronger through the sad, sweet music came the wailing of an infant. Young Gascoyne was almost as frightened as she at what he had done, and his true character asserted itself. He positively throbbed with selfishness. He poured out his woes to me at length. He would begin with some stereotyped recognition of the girl’s position, thrown in for the sake of mere decency, but after that it was all about the awkwardness of the affair as it would affect himself. “I’m not a coward, old chap, and I don’t mind a good stand-up fight. I can take a licking as well as any other man, and bear no grudge.” This I doubted, and set it down as merely the boastful jargon learnt at a public school. “But I don’t quite see having to fight the whole lot of them.” “They look awkward customers.” “Why, have you seen them?” I had made a slip. I had not informed him of my visit to Copsley. “I was passing through on my bicycle, and I just thought I would have a look in at the blacksmith’s shop.” “My sister will never forgive me. You see, Janet is old nurse’s niece. By Jove, it is a muddle.” He spoke as if the whole affair were not of his doing and as if he were the victim of a conspiracy. It was the occasion of my spending a week-end at the Grange. He discussed many ways of solving the difficulty. “I shall take her away. There’s nothing else to be done.” “You will be followed.” “Not if we go abroad. That’ll be the thing. Edith will come round in time. I shouldn’t wonder, once Janet were away from that common lot, if she didn’t improve till one wouldn’t mind taking her anywhere.” I was surprised to find that he was in earnest about eloping, but his was not a nature to look very far ahead, and he talked of being able to get along at some quiet foreign town as if he were not the sort of person in whom such an existence would bring out all the worst qualities. At any rate, I was determined to run no risks. I had made too many inquiries about Nat Holway not to be able to predict with some certainty what he would do if he discovered the truth.