She had seen very little of him or of Rose since their marriage. Rose and she had never been friends, and Reuben she knew was shy of her. He had been angry with her too, because she had not carried her aching heart on her sleeve. Outwardly she had worn no badge of sorrow--she was just as quick, just as combative, just as vivaciously intellectual as she had always been. Though she knew that she had lost him through these very characteristics, with which she had also attracted him, she made no effort to force herself into a different mould. She refused to regret anything, to be ashamed of anything, to change anything. If he came back he should find the same woman as he had left. She felt that he would come--he would return to her in the reaction that swung him from Rose. But would she be able to keep him? She did not feel so sure of that--for that did not depend on her or on him, but on that mysterious force outside themselves with which they had both already struggled in vain. § 24. Reuben scarcely knew what brought him to Cheat Land. It was about a week after the blow fell that he found himself treading the once familiar lane, lifting the latch of the garden gate, and knocking at the green house-door. Nothing had changed, except to fade a little and show some signs of wear and tear. Alice herself had not changed, nor had she faded, though her cheeks might have fallen in a trifle and a few lines traced themselves round her mouth. "Welcome," she said, and laughed. He took her hand, and forgot to be angry because she had laughed. "Come in, and we'll have a talk. Father's out, and mother's upstairs." She led the way into the queer little kitchen, which was also unchanged except for the fading of the curtains, and the introduction of one or two new books on the shelves. Alice pulled forward his old chair, and sat down opposite him on the settle. She wore one of her long wrapper-pinafores, this time of a warm clay-colour, which seemed to put a glow into her cheeks. "Well, Alice," he said huskily. "Well, Reuben, I'm glad to see you." "You've heard?" She nodded. Then she said gently: "Poor Rose." Reuben flushed. "One o' my victims, eh?" "Well, I knew you'd rather I said that than 'poor Reuben.'" "Reckon I would. I remember as how you wur always trying to make out as my lazy good-fur-naun sons wur my victims, and as how I'd sacrificed them all to my farm; now I reckon you're trying to do the same wud Rose." "Where is she?" "I dunno. Somewheres between here and Canada. May she rot there lik a sheep on its back, and her man too. Now say 'poor Rose.'" He turned on her almost fiercely, his lips curled back from his teeth in a sneer. "If you speak like that I'll say 'poor Reuben.'" "Well, say it--you wöan't be far wrong. Wot sort o' chap am I to have pride? My farm's ruined, my wife's run away, my children have left me--wot right have I to be proud?" "Because, though all those things have happened, you're holding your head up still."