“I do know. It’s hurting me. And”—he looked at her and his voice shook—“it’s hurting you. I won’t have you hurt.” He started forward suddenly as if he would have taken her in his arms. She put up her hands to keep him off. “No, no!” she cried. “I’m all right. I’m all right. It isn’t that. You mustn’t think it.” “I know it. That’s why I came.” He came near again. He seized her struggling hands. “Agatha, why can’t we? Why shouldn’t we?” “No, no,” she moaned. “We can’t. We mustn’t. Not _that_ way. I don’t want it, Rodney, that way.” “It shall be any way you like. Only don’t beat me off.” “I’m not—beating—you—off.” She stood up. Her face changed suddenly. “Rodney—I forgot. They’re coming.” “Who are they?” “The Powells. They’re coming to lunch.” “Can’t you put them off?” “I can, but it wouldn’t be very wise, dear. They might think—” “Confound them—they _would_ think.” He was pulling himself visibly together. “I’m afraid, Aggy, I ought—” “I know—you must. You must go soon.” He looked at his watch. “I must go _now_, dear. I daren’t stay. It’s dangerous.” “I know,” she whispered. “But when is the brute going?” “Poor darling, he’s going next week—next Thursday.” “Well then, I’ll—I’ll—” “Please, you must go.” “I’m going.” She held out her hand. “I daren’t touch you,” he whispered. “I’m going now. But I’ll come again next Friday, and I’ll stay.” As she saw his drawn face, there was not any strength in her to say “No.” VIII He had gone. She gathered herself together and went across the field to meet the Powells as if nothing had happened. Milly and her husband were standing at the gate of the Farm. They were watching; yes, they were watching Rodney Lanyon as he crossed the river by the Farm bridge. The bridge carried the field path that slanted up the hill to the farther and western end of the wood. Their attitude showed that they were interested in his brief appearance on the scene, and that they wondered what he had been doing there. And as she approached them she was aware of something cold, ominous and inimical, that came from them, and set towards her and passed by. Her sense of it only lasted for a second, and was gone so completely that she could hardly realize that she had ever felt it. For they were charming to her. Harding, indeed, was more perfect in his beautiful quality than ever. There was something about him that she had not been prepared for, something strange and pathetic, humble almost and appealing. She saw it in his eyes, his large, dark, wild animal eyes, chiefly. But it was a look that claimed as much as it deprecated; that assumed between them some unspoken communion and understanding. With all its pathos it was a look that frightened her. Neither he nor his wife said a word about Rodney Lanyon. She was not even sure, now, that they had recognized him.