She tried to amuse herself with _Good Words_ again, but failed. Then she went to the piano, but had no better success there. She was listening with such strained attention, that to her ears the music was only distracting and importunate noise. As a last resource she bethought her of a half-finished novel which she had left in her bed-room. She had not intended to go on with it till Monday, but she _would_, and she ran up-stairs with guilty eagerness to fetch it. She was coming back along the passage with the book in her hand, when she heard the opening and shutting of doors below, and the quick fall of steps. In another moment Reynold Harding came springing up the wide stairs to where she stood. There was a lamp at the head of the staircase, and as he passed out of the dusk into its light, she could see his angry eyes, and she knew the veins which stood out upon his forehead, looking as if the blood in them were black. He saw her just before he reached the top, and stopped short. For a moment neither spoke, then he drew a long breath, and laid his hand upon the balustrade. "Miss Strange," he said, "I'm going away." Barbara hardly knew what she had expected or feared, but this took her by surprise. "Going? Not now?" she exclaimed in amazement. "Not to-night--it is too late. I _must_ stop for the night. I can't help myself. But the first thing to-morrow morning." "Oh, why?" "I can't stay under the roof of a man who has insulted me as your uncle has done. It is impossible that we should meet again," said Reynold. His speech seemed to escape in fierce little jets of repressed wrath. "I'm not accustomed--I ought never to have come here!" "Oh!" cried Barbara, in a tone of pained reproach. He was silent, looking fixedly at her. The meaning of what he had said, and the fatal meaning of what he had done, came upon him, arresting him in the midst of his passion. All his fire seemed suddenly to die down to grey ashes. What madness had possessed him? They faced each other in the pale circle of lamplight, which trembled a little on the broad, white stairs. Reynold, stricken and dumb, grasped the balustrade with tightening fingers. Barbara leaned against the white-panelled wall. She was the first to speak. "Oh!" she said in a low voice. "That _you_ should be driven out of Mitchelhurst!" "Don't!" cried he. "God! it was my own fault!" "What was it? What did you quarrel about?" "Do I know?" Reynold demanded. "Ask him! Perhaps he can remember some of the idiotic jangling. Why did we begin? Why did we go on? I don't believe hell itself could be more wearisome. I was sick to death of it, and yet something seemed to goad me on--I couldn't give in! It was my infernal temper, I suppose." "Oh I am so sorry!" Barbara whispered. "He shouldn't have spoken to me as he did, when I was his guest at his own table," young Harding continued. "But after all, he is an old man, I ought to have remembered that. Well, it's too late; it's all over now!"