"I never thought of it. I somehow regarded it as all finished. And I have never even _thought_ of marrying Michael or anyone when I was left a widow. I was much too miserable. I had had enough of being married." There was a difficult silence. "I should never have a moment's peace if--if I _did_ speak," said Fay at last. "Yes, you would," said Magdalen with sudden intensity. "That is where peace lies." Fay raised herself to her knees and looked into Magdalen's eyes. The dawn had come up long ago, and in its austere light Magdalen's face showed very sharp and white in a certain tender fixity and compassion. She had seen that look once before in her husband's dying eyes. Now that she was suddenly brought face to face with it again she understood it for the first time. Had not Andrea's last prayer been that she might be given peace! CHAPTER XIX There is no wild wind in his soul, No strength of flood or fire; He knows no force beyond control, He feels no deep desire. He knows no altitudes above, No passions elevate; All is but mockery of love, And mimicry of hate. --EDGAR VINE HALL. The morning after the storm Wentworth was sitting in the library at Barford, looking out across the garden to the down. Behind the down lay Priesthope, where Fay was. He was thinking of her. This shewed a frightful lapse in his regulated existence. So far he had allowed the remembrance of Fay to invade him only in the evenings over his cigarette, or when he was pacing amid his purpling beeches. Was she now actually beginning to invade his mornings, those mornings sacred to the history of Sussex? No! No! Dismiss the extravagant surmise. Wentworth was far more interested in his attitude towards a thing or person--in what he called his point of view--than in the thing viewed. He was distinctly attracted by Fay, but he was more occupied with his feelings about her than with herself. It was these which were now engrossing him.