She turned on him her grave white face, and he noticed a curious expression there as of incipient terror. "Because you might do some great harm either to yourself or----" His delicate, sceptical eyebrows questioned her. "Or me." "You?" he murmured gently, pitifully almost. "Yes, me. Or even--well, one doesn't quite know where the harm might end. If I could only make you take another view. I tried to make you--to work it that way--so that you might find the secret and do it for yourself." "I can't do anything for myself. But, Agatha, I'll take any view you like of it, so long as you'll keep on at me." "Of course I'll keep on." At that he stopped suddenly in his path, and faced her. "I say, you know, it isn't hurting you, is it?" She felt herself wince. "Hurting me? How could it hurt me?" "Milly said it couldn't." Agatha sighed. She said to herself, "Milly--if only Milly hadn't interfered." "Don't you think it's cold here in the wood?" she said. "Cold?" "Yes. Let's go back." As they went Milly met them at the Farm bridge. She wanted Agatha to come and stay for supper; she pressed, she pleaded, and Agatha, who had never yet withstood Milly's pleading, stayed. It was from that evening that she really dated it, the thing that came upon her. She was aware that in staying she disobeyed an instinct that told her to go home. Otherwise she could not say that she had any sort of premonition. Supper was laid in the long room with the yellow blinds, where she had first found Harding Powell. The blinds were down to-night, and the lamp on the table burnt low; the oil had given out. The light in the room was still daylight and came level from the sunset, leaking through the yellow blinds. It struck Agatha that it was the same light, the same ochreish light that they had found in the room six weeks ago. But that was nothing. What it was she did not know. The horrible light went when the flame of the lamp burnt clearer. Harding was talking to her cheerfully and Milly was smiling at them both, when half through the meal Agatha got up and declared that she must go. She was ill; she was tired; they must forgive her, but she must go. The Powells rose and stood by her, close to her, in their distress. Milly brought wine and put it to her lips; but she turned her head away and whispered, "Please let me go. Let me get away." Harding wanted to walk back with her, but she refused with a vehemence that deterred him. "How very odd of her," said Milly, as they stood at the gate and watched her go. She was walking fast, almost running, with a furtive step, as if something pursued her. Powell did not speak. He turned from his wife and went slowly back into the house. CHAPTER NINE She knew now what had happened to her. She _was_ afraid of Harding Powell; and it was her fear that had cried to her to go, to get away from him.