"No, I think not. I mean, I think the other might be more cruel. Of course it depends, everything depends, on how you do it. But you would not be cruel; you would not say an unkind word. I suppose you would not need to say much? Only just to let her know that it is not all wish—that it is partly duty—that you will learn to feel as you ought even if—if you don't quite yet." There was a sound like a little gasp. "I suppose one may conquer, always, in such a case, if one ought," continued Ethel, with a dim smile, and the tightness at her heart again. "Only I do think Fulvia ought to know just so much. Sooner or later she must, and it would be worse after—after marriage. If she goes into it, she should go with her eyes open; not wait to find out later—too late." They were leaving the cemetery now, passing out into the broad road. It was too dark for the narrow path by the river, and they had to keep to the road, which was much deserted at so late an hour. They walked on quietly, slowly; for Nigel seemed as if he could hardly drag himself along. During some minutes neither spoke, and then his excessive weariness dawned upon Ethel. She said— "You must go the shortest way." "When I have seen you home—perhaps." "I would rather you should not. I am all right when we get to the houses." Nigel made no answer, and she knew that he did not mean to yield. She knew it more certainly when they reached a little gate leading to a field, for he paused and held it open. "This way?" Ethel asked, knowing that it would lead them to the kitchen garden behind the Rectory. Nigel said "Yes," and she could not remonstrate. She could only let him have his will, this once. They would have to speak that mournful word, "good-bye," very soon—such a good-bye as they had never yet said one to the other. It was damp, slushy and dark, going through the meadow. Ethel's foot slipped, and Nigel drew her hand within his arm. "I can get on—I am all right," she said, not so steadily as hitherto, for something in his touch unnerved her. He made no reply; and she would not draw her hand away—would not risk adding to his pain. Something told her that he had reached almost the outer limit of endurance; and the consciousness of this, with the continued silence, had a curious effect upon her. She began to tremble—to wish she might escape. She thought of many things to say, one after another—things to comfort him. For somehow Ethel knew, and could not help knowing, that this death of her hopes was the death of his also. But one thing would not do, and another she could not trust her voice to utter; and so they went on in silence. The silence grew at last too oppressive, and Ethel tried to break it. "Must things be settled soon about your leaving the Grange?" But he had no answer whatever; and then she knew that Nigel did not speak because he could not.