There seemed to be nothing to say, and he did not seek words. He and Katherine walked slowly to the end of the terrace. Then Katherine told him of her note to Hilda and handed him Hilda's reply. "I shall go to England to-morrow, Katherine," said Odd, when he had read it. "You will have to fight, you know. She will say that my wrong did not excuse hers. She will say that nothing excused you. She _is_ a little goose." "I'll fight." They had walked back to the entrance of the hotel and here they paused; there was a fitness in farewell. "Katherine," said Odd, "it would have been very base in you to have kept silence, and yet, in spite of that, you have been very courageous this evening." "You are a hideously truthful person, Peter. Why put in that damaging clause? Have I merely escaped baseness?" "No, for you have never been finer." "That is true. I'll never reach the same heights again," and Katherine laughed. "Understand that _I_ understand. Your story has not absolved _me_." "There is the danger with Hilda. You must make my holocaust avail." "I hope that a good thing is never lost," Peter replied. CHAPTER XV The October day was deliciously warm at Allersley, a fragrant autumnal warmth, limpid with sunshine, and the woods all golden. Odd was walking through the woods, the sunshine of home and hope in his blood, his mood of resolute success tempered by no more than just a touch of trembling. In the distance lay the river, a glitter here and there beyond the tree trunks; the little landing-wharf where he had first seen Hilda was no doubt still unchanged and worth a pilgrimage on some later day, but now he must take the most direct way to the Priory; he had only arrived an hour before, but a minute's further delay would be unbearable. This day must atone for all the past failure of his life, and make his autumn golden. He walked quickly, following, he remembered, almost the same path among the trees that he and Hilda had gone by that night, ten years ago; the memory emphasized the touch of trembling. To dwell on her dearness made fear tread closely. The gray stone wall wound among the woods, Peter caught sight of it, and, at the same moment, of the fluttering white of a dress beyond it that made his heart stand still. He could not have hoped to find Hilda here with no teasing preliminaries, no languid mother or sulky father to mar the fine rush of his onslaught. Such good luck augured well, for--yes, it was Hilda walking slowly among the trees--and at the clear sight of her, Peter wondered if the breathing space of a conventional preliminary would not have been better, and felt that he had exaggerated his own courage in picturing that conquering impetuosity.