“Your promise,” he repeated. “I know you took advantage of his generosity to withdraw it for a moment, but you renewed it again immediately when I pointed out to you what you had done. Penelope, is it possible that you--my sister--wish to break a solemn promise? What reason can you possibly have for such a thing?” Penelope writhed. She had no reason to give, even to herself. All she knew was that she had felt to-day as never before the incubus of George Ferrers’ presence, the utter lack of sympathy between herself and him. If she contrasted him with any one else, it was done unconsciously. “I don’t believe he wishes it himself,” she said. “He doesn’t care for me. He doesn’t behave as if he did.” “He told me himself,” returned Colin’s solemn, accusing voice, “that while he would not venture to appeal to you at present, it was his dearest hope to claim your promise some day. It is your privilege to help him to raise himself again to the position he has lost. What can be a more noble task for a woman?” Penelope could not say. Alone with Lady Haigh, it was easy to agree that woman was an independent being, with a life and rights of her own; but she would never have dreamt of asserting this to Colin, to whom a woman was a more or less necessary complement to a man. Ferrers needed her, therefore she would naturally accept the charge--that was his view. “Would you wish me to marry him as he is now?” she asked desperately. “No,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration: “I am not quite happy about him, and that is why I am most anxious you should be kind to him. With your sympathy to help him on, and the hope of claiming you at last, he will find the path much easier to climb. Surely this is not too much to ask?” It sounded eminently fair and reasonable, but Penelope felt that it was not. There was a flaw somewhere which Colin did not see, and she could not point out to him, even if she could be sure that she saw it herself. Ferrers did not care for her, she was convinced, even in the careless, patronising style of his early days, and yet he insisted on keeping her bound. But perhaps he loved her in some strange fashion of his own, of which she could have no experience or conception. And Colin thought that the sacrifice was called for. She turned to him. “I--I will try to like him, and help him--and do as he wishes,” she said, finding a strange difficulty in speaking. “Of course. I knew you couldn’t do anything else,” said Colin, with such utter unconsciousness of the mental struggle she had just gone through that Penelope found his calm acquiescence almost maddening. She was glad to be saved the necessity of answering by the sudden entrance of Lady Haigh, who turned back to rebuke a servant for not having drawn up the blinds, and then discovered Colin.