But he could not leave her; he could not keep away from her although he was seldom happy when he was with her. Slowly, gradually, through their meetings there had grown a bond. He was more naturally himself with her than with any other human being. Although she excited him she also tranquillised him. Increasingly he admired and respected her--her honesty, independence, reserve, pride. Perhaps it was upon that that their alliance was really based--upon mutual respect and admiration. There had been never, from the very first moment, any deception between them. He had never been so honest with any one before--certainly not with himself. His desire, beyond everything else in life, was to be honest: to pretend to no emotion that he did not truly feel, to see exactly how he felt about life, and to stand up before it unafraid and uncowed. Honesty seemed to him the greatest quality in life; that was why he had been attracted to Ronder. And yet life seemed to be for ever driving him into false positions. Even now he was contemplating running away with this girl. Until to-night he had fancied that he was only contemplating it, but his conversation with his mother had shown him how near he was to a decision. Nevertheless, he would talk to Ronder and to his father, not, of course, telling them everything, but catching perhaps from them some advice that would seem to him so true that it would guide him. Finally, when the gold bar appeared behind the trees he forced himself into honesty with his father. How could he have meant so sincerely that his mother must not hurt his father when he himself was about to hurt him? And this discovery had not lessened his determination to take the step. Was he, then, utterly hypocritical? He knew he was not. He could look ahead of his own affair and see that in the end his father would admit that it had been best for him. They all knew--even his mother must in her heart have known--that he was not going to live in Polchester for ever. His departure for London was inevitable, and it simply was that he would take Annie with him. That would be for a moment a blow to his father, but it would not be so for long. And in the town his father would win sympathy; he, Falk, would be condemned and despised. They would say: "Ah, that young Brandon. He never was any good. His father did all he could, but it was no use...." And then in a little time there would come the news that he was doing well in London, and all would be right. He looked to his talk with Ronder. Ronder would advise well. Ronder knew life. He was not provincial like these others.... Suddenly he was cold. He went back to bed and slept dreamlessly. * * * * * Next evening, as half-past eight was striking, he was at his customary post by the river, above the "Dog and Pilchard."