Five times—five times only, counting the Oxford escapade as one, she had spoken to him; and they—“they” meant Claversham, for it was her chief misery to believe that the whole town was talking of her—had made this of it! They had noticed his attentions, and had seen them scornfully withdrawn when he learned who she was. Oh, it was cowardly of him—cowardly! And yet—and yet—so her thoughts ran, taking a fresh turn—had he ever said a word or cast a glance at her which meant anything—which all the world might not have heard and seen? No, never. And, with that, her anger changed its course and ran against Gregg. Him she would never forgive. It was his evil imagination, his base suspicions, which had built it all up; and Mr. Lindo was no more to blame—though she a little despised him for his weakness and conventionality—than she was herself. It seemed most sad that he should be ruined because no one would say a word to warn him. Brooding over the fire, she felt a girl’s pity for the young man’s ill-fortune. She forgot the last month, during which she had spoken to him but once—and then he had seemed embarrassed and anxious to be gone—and remembered only how frank and gay he had been in the first blush of his hopes at Oxford, how pleasantly he had smiled, how well and yet how quaintly his new dignity had sat upon him, and how naïvely he had shaken it off at times and shown himself a boy, with a boy’s love of fun and mischief. Or, again, she remembered how thoughtful he had been for them, how considerate, how much at home in scenes new to them, with how lordly an air he had provided for their comfort. Oh, it was a pity—a grievous pity, that his hopes should end in such a disaster as Mr. Bonamy foretold! And all because no one would say a friendly word to him! The next day (Tuesday) was a wet day—a sleety, blusterous winter day, and she did not go out. But on the Wednesday, as the rector crossed the churchyard after reading the Litany, he saw Miss Bonamy passing his door. He fancied, with a little astonishment—for she had constantly evinced the same avoidance of intimacy with him which had at first piqued him—that she slightly checked her pace so as to meet him. And, to tell the truth, the rector was half pleased and half annoyed. He had hardened his heart and set his face to crush Mr. Bonamy. He had in his pocket a letter from the lawyer, warning him that, unless he altered his course, a writ would be served upon him. And a dozen times to-day he had in his mind called the church warden hard names. But yet he was not absolutely ill-pleased to see Miss Bonamy. He felt a certain excitement in the _rencontre_ under the circumstances. He would meet her magnanimously, and of course she would ignore the quarrel. He hated Mr. Bonamy for a puritanical old pettifogger; but that was no reason why he should be rude to his daughter.