He turned and saw Lucia standing beside him. She had come in unheard, as on that evening which seemed now so long ago. She held out her hand. Not to have shaken hands with the poor fellow, would, she felt, have been to condemn him without a hearing. He did not see the offered hand, nor yet the chair it signed to him to take. As if he knew that he was on his trial, he stood rigidly before her. His eyes alone approached her, looking to hers to see if they condemned him. Lucia's eyes were strictly non-committal. They, too, seemed to stand still, to wait, wide and expectant, for his defence. Her attitude was so far judicial that she was not going to help him by a leading question. She merely relieved the torture of his visible bodily constraint by inviting him to sit down. He dropped into a chair that stood obliquely by the window, and screwed himself round in it so as to face her. "I saw my father this morning," he began. "I went up by the early train." "I know." "Then you know by this time that I was a day too late." "Mr. Pilkington sent me your father's letter." "What did you think of it?" The question, so cool, so sudden, so direct, was not what she felt she had a right to expect from him. "Well--what did you think of it yourself?" She looked at him and saw that she had said a cruel thing. "Can't you imagine what I think of it?" This again was too sudden; it took her at a disadvantage, compelling her instantly to commit herself to a theory of innocence or complicity. "If you can't," said he, "of course there's no more to be said." He said it very simply, as if he were not in the least offended, and she looked at him again. No. There was no wounded dignity about him, there was the tragic irremediable misery of a man condemned unheard. And could that be her doing--Lucia's? She who used to be so kind and just? Never in all her life had she condemned anybody unheard. But she had to choose between this man who a month ago was an utter stranger to her, and Horace who was of her own blood, her own class, her own life. Did she really want Mr. Rickman to be tainted that Horace might be clean? And she knew he trusted her; he had made his appeal to the spirit that had once divined him. He might well say, "could she not imagine what he thought of it?" "Yes," she said gently, "I think I can. If you had not told me what the library was worth, of course I should have thought your father very generous in giving as much for it as he has done." "I did tell you I was anxious he--we--should not buy it; because I knew we couldn't give you a proper price." "Yes, you told me. And I wanted you to buy it, because I thought you would do your best for me." "I know. I know. If it wasn't for that--but that's the horrible part of it." "Why? You did your best, did you not?" "Yes. I really thought it would be all right if I went up and saw him. I felt certain he would see it as I did--" "Well?"