“Ah,” she said, “it is so easy to see that you have never loved--that you do not know what love is. When you do you will not talk about letting one’s self care. You might as well talk about letting one’s self die when one is struggling upon a death bed panting and gasping for life. It is the inevitable in love as in death. There is no choice.” She rose to her feet. “Goodbye,” she said. “I shall not trouble you any more. I am going to forget that such a person as Philip Maltabar ever lived.” I walked with her to the door. She looked down the dim road up the park wistfully. “Perhaps,” she said, “I may see him this afternoon. Was he coming to see you?” “Certainly not. He does not visit here,” I continued. “Oh, he comes to see me,” she said, quickly. “Perhaps it is not right--proper you call it--that he should. I do not care. I would like you to come and visit me--but--he might be there,” she added, hesitatingly. “Goodbye.” I touched her hand, and she went out with a little flush still lingering in her cheeks. I saw her look wistfully up and down the road, and then she picked up her skirts and took the muddy footpath across the park towards the Court. I turned away and went upstairs to my room. Was it pity for her I wonder that brought the tears into my eyes? After all, I was only a woman. CHAPTER XXIII IN THE PLANTATION I was determined to keep my word with Olive Berdenstein with absolute faithfulness. For nearly a week I stayed in the house except for a short walk in the early morning. Three times Bruce Deville called, and met with the same answer. Often I saw him riding slowly by and scanning the garden and looking up towards the house with an impatient look in his eyes and a dark frown upon his strong face. Once I saw him walking with Olive Berdenstein. She seemed to have caught him up, and found him in no very pleasant temper. His shoulders were high, and he was walking so quickly that she had almost to run to keep up with him. I looked away with a sigh, and yet--what a heartless hypocrite I was. I found myself thinking with a curious satisfaction that his shoulders had been lower and his face very different when I had walked with him. After nearly a week of solitude with only Alice’s parish talk and mild speculations as to our future at Eastminster to break the intolerable monotony of it, I could bear it no longer. I put on my hat one wet and windy afternoon and went down to the Yellow House. Adelaide Fortress was alone, writing at her desk, and when I entered we looked at one another for a moment without any greeting. It seemed to me that a few more grey hairs had mingled with the black--a little more wanness had crept into the delicate, intellectual face. But she greeted me cheerfully, without any shadow of reproach in her tone, although I knew that my absence had been a trouble to her. “It is good of you to come and see me,” she said. “Have you heard from your father?” I nodded assent.