sciously took the flower up, and when he went out of the house he held it in his fingers.
The night was dark and his mood was preoccupied. He scarcely thought of the path before him at all, and on passing through the gate he came, without any warning, upon a figure standing before it. He drew back and would have spoken had he been given the time.
"Hush," said Haworth's voice. "It's me, lad."
"What are you doing here?" asked Murdoch. "Are you going in?"
"No," surlily, I'm not."
Murdoch said no more. Haworth turned with him and strode along by his side. But he got over his ill-temper sufficiently to speak after a few minutes.
"It's the old tale," he said. "I'm making a fool of myself. I can't keep away. I was there last night, and to-night the fit came upon me so strong that I was bound to go. But when I got there I'd had time to think it over and I couldn't make up my mind to go in. I knew I'd better give her a rest. What did Ffrench want of you?"
Murdoch explained.
"Did you see—her?"
"Yes."
"Well," restlessly, "have you naught to say about her?"
"No," coldly. "What should I have to say of her? It's no business of mine to talk her over."
"You'd talk her over if you were in my place," said Haworth. "You'd be glad enow to do it. You'd think of her night and day, and grow hot and cold at the thought of her. You—you don't know her as I do—if you did——"
