Madam went swiftly, softly along, with that power of putting aside the overwhelming consciousness of wretchedness which is possessed by those whose appointed measure of misery is the largest in this world. To die then would have been best, but not to be helpless and encounter the pity of those who could give no aid. She had the power not to think, to address herself to what was before her, and hold back “upon the threshold of the mind” the supreme anguish of which she could never be free, which there would be time enough, alas! and to spare, to indulge in. Perhaps, though she knew so much and was so experienced in pain, it did not occur to her at this terrible crisis of life to think it possible that any further pang might be awaiting her. The other, who waited for her within shade of the copse, drew back when he perceived that two people were coming towards him. He scarcely responded even when Mrs. Trevanion called him in a low voice by name. “Whom have you got with you?” he said, almost in a whisper, holding himself concealed among the trees. “Only Jane.” “Only Jane,” he said, in a tone of relief, but still with a roughness and sullenness out of keeping with his youthful voice. He added, after a moment, “What does Jane want? I hope there is not going to be any sentimental leave-taking. I want to stay and not to go.” “That is impossible now. Everything is altered. I am going with you, Edmund.” “Going with me--good Lord!” There was a moment’s silence; then he resumed in a tone of satire, “What may that be for? Going with _me_! Do you think I can’t take care of myself? Do you think I want a nurse at my heels?” Then another pause. “I know what you mean. You are going away for a change, and you mean me to turn up easily and be introduced to the family? Not a bad idea at all,” he added, in a patronizing tone. “Edmund,” she said, “afterwards, when we have time, I will tell you everything. There is no time now; but that has come about which I thought impossible. I am--free to make up to you as much as I can, for the past--” “Free,” he repeated, with astonishment, “to make up to me?” The pause that followed seemed one of consternation. Then he went on roughly, “I don’t know what you mean by making up to me. I have often heard that women couldn’t reason. You don’t mean that you are flinging over the others now, to make a romance--and balance matters? I don’t know what you mean.” Madam Trevanion grasped Jane’s arm and leaned upon it with what seemed a sudden collapse of strength, but this was invisible to the other, who probably was unaware of any effect produced by what he said. Her voice came afterwards through the dark with a thrill in it that seemed to move the air, something more penetrating than the wind.