She went on, unconscious of his nearness. He followed her, horror-stricken. Emmy, a new Ophelia, was about to seek a watery grave for herself and her love sorrow. Again came the problem which in moments of emergency Septimus had never learned to solve. What should he do? Across the agony of his mind shot a feeling of horrible indelicacy in thrusting himself upon a woman at such a moment. He was half tempted to turn back and leave her to the sanctity of her grief. But again the splash echoed in his ears and again he shivered. The water was so black and cold. And what could he say to Zora? The thought lashed his pace to sudden swiftness and Emmy turned with a little scream of fear. "Who are you?" "It's I, Septimus," he stammered, taking hold of his cap. "For God's sake, don't do it." "I shall. Go away. How dare you spy on me?" She stood and faced him, and her features were just discernible in the dim starlight. Anger rang in her voice. She stamped her foot. "How dare you?" "I haven't been spying on you," he explained. "I only recognized you a couple of minutes ago. I was walking about--taking a stroll before breakfast, you know." "Oh!" she said, stonily. "I'm dreadfully sorry to have intruded upon you," he continued, twirling his cap nervously in his fingers while the breeze played through his upstanding hair. "I didn't mean to--but I couldn't stand by and let you do it. I couldn't, really." "Do what?" she asked, still angry. Septimus did not know that beneath the fur-lined jacket her heart was thumping madly. "Drown yourself," said Septimus. "In the pond?" she laughed hysterically. "In three feet of water? How do you think I was going to manage it?" Septimus reflected. He had not thought of the pond's inadequate depth. "You might have lain down at the bottom until it was all over," he remarked in perfect seriousness. "I once heard of a servant girl who drowned herself in a basin of water." Emmy turned impatiently and, walking on, waved him away; but he accompanied her mechanically. "Oh, don't follow me," she cried in a queer voice. "Leave me alone, for God's sake. I'm not going to commit suicide. I wish to heaven I had the pluck." "But if you're not going to do that, why on earth are you here?" "I'm taking a stroll before breakfast--just like yourself. Why am I here? If you really want to know," she added defiantly, "I'm going to London--by the early train from Hensham--the milk train. See, I'm respectable. I have my luggage." She swung something in the dark before him and he perceived that it was a handbag. "Now are you satisfied? Or do you think I was going to take a handkerchief and a powder puff into the other world with me? I'm just simply going to London--nothing more." "But it's a seven-mile walk to Hensham."