“You see,” he said, “with me—I don’t think one person would ever monopolise me—be everything to me—I think never.” This she did not consider. “No,” she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her dark eyes flashed. “This is your mother,” she said. “I know she never liked me.” “No, no, it isn’t,” he said hastily. “It was for your sake she spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself engaged.” There was a silence. “And if I ask you to come down any time, you won’t stop away, will you?” She did not answer. By this time she was very angry. “Well, what shall we do?” she said shortly. “I suppose I’d better drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go on alone.” “I don’t see that we need,” he said. “I can give you a French lesson, surely.” “Well—and there are Sunday nights. I shan’t stop coming to chapel, because I enjoy it, and it’s all the social life I get. But you’ve no need to come home with me. I can go alone.” “All right,” he answered, rather taken aback. “But if I ask Edgar, he’ll always come with us, and then they can say nothing.” There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She wished they would mind their own business. “And you won’t think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?” he asked. “Oh no,” replied Miriam, without looking at him. He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no anchor of righteousness that held him. “Because,” he continued, “a man gets across his bicycle—and goes to work—and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods.” “No, I shan’t bother,” said Miriam. And she meant it. It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors. “How white Paul looks!” Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. “Miriam, you shouldn’t have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you’ve taken cold, Paul?” “Oh, no!” he laughed. But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o’clock, he rose to go. “You’re not going home, are you?” asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously. “Yes,” he replied. “I said I’d be early.” He was very awkward. “But this _is_ early,” said Mrs. Leivers. Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. “Well—good-night, all!” he faltered. She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past the window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain. She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passed through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one’s neck.