‘He doesn’t accuse all men of being Sir Willoughbys,’ she returned soothingly. ‘I hadn’t thought of you in exactly that connexion. If you choose to wear the coat, you have put it on yourself.’ ‘We’ll say, then, that it doesn’t fit, and I’ll resemble the other fellow—the Daniel Deronda one—what’s his name, Whitfield, Whitford?’ (Whitford, it will be remembered, was the dark horse who came in at the finish and captured the heroine.) Marcia laughed. ‘I really can’t say that the other fits any better. I’m afraid you’re not in the book, Mr. Sybert.’ They came to a fork in the roads and drew rein again. ‘Which way?’ he asked. She paused and looked about. They were already far up in the mountains, and towering ahead, nearer and clearer now, on the crest of a still higher ridge, rose the old monastery she could see from her window. She pointed with her whip to the gaunt pile of grey stone against the sky. ‘Is that your destination?’ he asked. ‘Is it too far? I’ve been wanting to see it closer ever since we came to the villa.’ He studied the distance. ‘I should judge it’s about seven kilometres in a straight line, but there’s no telling how long the road takes to get there. We can try it, though; and if you’re not in a hurry to get home, we may reach it.’ ‘At any rate, there’s nothing to prevent our turning back if we find it’s too far,’ she suggested. ‘Oh, yes; one can always turn back,’ he agreed. ‘One can always turn back.’ The words caught Marcia’s attention, and she repeated them to herself. They seemed to carry an inner meaning, and she commenced weighing anew her feelings toward Paul. Could she turn back? Was it not too late? No, if she were on the wrong road, the sooner the better; but was she on the wrong road? There were no guide-posts; the end was hidden by a turning. She rode on, forgetting to talk, with a shadow on her face and a serious light in her eyes. ‘Well?’ Sybert inquired, ‘would you like my advice?’ ‘I’m afraid it’s not a matter you can help me with,’ she returned, with a quick laugh. They pushed on farther up into the hills, between groves of twisted olive trees and sloping vineyards, through fields dyed blue and scarlet with forget-me-nots and poppies. All nature was green and glistening after the rain, and the mountain breeze blew fresh against their faces. Neither could be insensible to the influence of the day. Their talk was light and free and glancing—mere badinage; but it occasionally struck a deeper note, and holding it for an instant, half reluctantly let it go. Marcia had never known Sybert in this mood—she had not, as she realized, known him in any. In all their casual intercourse of the past few months they had scarcely exchanged a single idea. He was an unexplored country, and his character held for her the attraction of the unknown.