Though she did not at once tell herself whose solitude she had invaded, she knew well—knew instantly. The position might be unwonted, but the outline of the shoulders was unmistakable. He was a little way off from the new mound, seated on the only other tombstone near—a flat stone with a recumbent cross upon it—and his head was bent forward, resting on his hands. The attitude was one of intense trouble; but he remained quiet. Ethel had never seen Nigel in that position before; yet she recognised him, despite the gloom. She did not know whether perhaps she ought to go away; only it seemed impossible to leave him thus. So she went forward gently, and stood beside the mound, her heart very full for his sake. Two or three minutes passed; and she stirred, touching a loose stone with her foot. It rolled over, and the slight rattle caused him to lift his head. "Ethel!" They had not met since Fulvia's birthday—since the morning after their interview in the vestry. Life had seemed then very fair, and full of promise for them both. Now all was changed; but how much changed, how dark the sky had grown, Ethel did not yet know. She came forward when he stood up, and put her hand into his, only intent on showing her sympathy. "Thanks; I knew you would feel for us," he said. The misery of his face was almost too much for Ethel; she had great difficulty in controlling herself. "I didn't know you were so ill still," she faltered. "Ill! No, I don't think so." He spoke as if hardly knowing what he said, and motioned Ethel to the seat he had quitted. She took it obediently, without question; and he sat down beside her. "I have been wishing for a few words with you," he went on. "If I could be a comfort—any comfort! I know how much you must feel his death; the loss of—" "If that were all!" Nigel spoke with despairing calmness, and Ethel looked at him in amazement. "That—all!" she repeated. "Did you mean—?" Nigel made no answer. He seemed to be gazing at the faint light visible still through bare trees. For more than half-an-hour he had sat here alone, trying to unravel the perplexities of his position, striving in vain after definite thought. He had come to the cemetery from the Grange drawing-room, straight and fast as walking could bring him, not so much to be near his father's grave as to be away from people, beyond reach of human eyes. One thing alone was clear—that speak with Ethel he must, this very day if possible, and before he could or would give any decisive answer to his mother and to Mr. Carden-Cox. He did not count himself free, for he had distinctly sought Ethel hitherto. Now, indeed, he could not ask her to be his. Apart from all questions of marrying Fulvia, he could not rightly ask Ethel to wait for him, under the circumstances. So he told himself; and yet he felt that, but for this terrible complication, he would have hoped—she might have waited.