She had much more to say—or, rather, had she said all that was in her mind she would have had. But his tone helped her to recover herself—helped her to play the part on which she had long ago decided. In her way she loved this man, and her will had melted at sight of him, standing downcast and defeated before her. Had he attacked her on the side of her affections he might have done much—he might have prevailed. But his hard words recalled her to her natural self. “What would you have me say?” she answered, looking steadily across the table at him. Something, she began to see, had happened besides the loss of the living—something which had hurt him sorely. And as she discerned this, she compared his dishevelled, untidy dress with the luxury of the room, and shivered at the thought of the precipice on the brink of which she had paused. He did not answer. “What would you have me say?” she repeated more firmly. “If you do not know, I cannot teach you,” he retorted, with a sneer. “You have no right to say that,” she replied bravely. “You remember our compact.” “You intend to keep to it?” he answered scornfully. She had no doubt about that now, and she summoned up her courage by an effort. “Certainly I do,” she murmured. “I thought you understood me. I tried to make my meaning clear.” Clode did not answer her at once. He stood looking at her, his eyes glowing. He knew that his only hope, if hope there might be, lay in gaining some word from her now—now, before any rumor to his disadvantage should get abroad in the town. But his temper, long restrained, was so infuriated by disappointment and defeat, that for the moment love did not prevail with him. He knew that a tender word might do much, but he could not frame it. When he did at last find tongue it was only to say, “And that is your final decision?” “It is,” she answered in a low voice. She did not dare to look up at him. “And all you have to say to me?” “Yes. Except that I wish you well. I shall always wish you well, Mr. Clode,” she muttered. “Thank you,” he answered coldly. So coldly, and with so much composure, that she did not guess the gust of hatred of all things and all men which was in his heart. He was beside himself with love, rage, disappointment. For a moment longer he stood gazing at her downcast face. But she did not look up at him; and presently, in a strange silence, he turned and went out of the room. CHAPTER XXV. HUMBLE PIE. The success of reticence is great. Mr. Bonamy and his nephew, as they went home to tea after their victory, plumed themselves not a little upon the proof of this which they had just given Mr. Clode. They said little, it is true; even to one another, but more than once Mr. Bonamy chuckled in a particularly dry manner, and at the top of the street Jack made an observation “You think the archdeacon was satisfied?” he asked, turning to his companion for a moment.