He rose and leant against the mantel-shelf.

"I only know that I am quite unworthy of you, Maude," he said, gravely.

She looked up at him and laughed.

"Are you? Who cares! Not I! _I_ only know that I love you so dearly
that if you were the blackest villain to be found in fiction, it would
make no difference to me."

He was filled with shame and self-reproach, and turned away his head
that she might not see the shame in his eyes.

"How did you come?" she asked, presently. "If my father were only at
home! You could stay with us, then."

"I am staying at The Woodman," he said.

She regarded him with some surprise.

"Last night! Late, do you mean? Did you meet, see anyone?"

There was a dawning suspicion in her eyes, and she regarded his averted
face keenly; she noticed that he hesitated and seemed embarrassed.

"No one you know," he replied, feeling that it was impossible for him
to speak Ida's name.

"How do you know?" she asked, with a curious smile. "Who was it?"

"I met Miss Heron of Herondale," he said, trying to speak casually, and
wondering what she would say, hoping fervently that she would ask no
more questions.

The blood rushed to her face, her eyes flashed and her lips tightened;
but she did not speak, and moved away to the window, standing there
looking out, but seeing nothing. He had gone to _her_ the moment he had
returned: what did it mean? But she dared not ask; for she knew
instinctively how slight was the chain by which she held him. With an
effort she restrained the rage, the fierce jealousy, which threatened
to burst forth in violent reproaches and accusation; and after a minute
or two she turned to him, outwardly calm and smiling.