Fulvia had not walked fast, but she at once decided to do so. Rather bluntly and awkwardly, though seldom disposed to awkwardness, she said good-bye, and went on. She kept up a good pace till well out of sight. "Has Ethel cared too much?" she asked, thinking over the brief interview. "Bright enough; but is it natural brightness? Nigel and she have always been friends. Could Nigel have made her hope, and then have left her? No, that would not be like Nigel." Fulvia, felt sure of this, still Ethel might have hoped without reason. Fulvia pitied Ethel, thinking what might have been Ethel's happiness, but for certain circumstances; and then she pitied herself, recurring to the present trouble. Her step soon slackened under its weight. Presently she reached a bridge. The towing-path thereafter continued on the other side of the river, but Fulvia did not cross. She made her way along the broken bank, where no path existed, wishing to get out of sight, if Ethel should follow so far. A snug spot near the water on a steep slope presented itself. There were shrubs and trees on either side, enough to shelter from observation, or so Fulvia thought. She edged herself downward cautiously, and when comfortably placed, with one aged piece of jutting tree-root for her seat, and another for her footstool, she found that the retreat she had chosen was not invisible either from the bridge or the opposite bank; but after all it did not matter! Ethel would not invade her solitude. Time passed, Fulvia did not know how. She had not looked at her watch since leaving home. It was a relief to be alone, beyond reach of questioning eyes, and she could safely allow herself here to sink into a mood of melancholy, for nobody was at hand to note how she looked. Once in such a mood it was hard to rouse herself out of it. She felt like sitting on indefinitely, letting her mind drift as leaves drifted past in the stream below. Would Nigel ever quite get over this affair of the postscript? Fulvia could not be content with mere forgiveness; she wanted to be reinstated in his good opinion. That good opinion had always been hers, and she could not endure to lose it. Would he ever again have his old complete confidence in her? "Whatever else might be wanting, that was not wanting." So Nigel had said, "Whatever else—" then he, too, had been conscious of a want, either in himself or in Fulvia. Only it had not been want of trust. He had trusted her entirely, and now his trust was shaken.