the exquisiteness of that which suddenly flamed within her, the surprise and wonder of it. She thought no more of Maud; not even in the most remote cells of her brain did the memory of her friend linger; she thought not even of herself; she thought only of him. It was as if a great warm wind, full of the odour of the flowers above which it had passed, full of their colour even, had swept into the passionless calm chamber of her soul, filling it, vivifying it, making it sing. At that moment she knew she was in love with him.
"Ah, do you find it damnably bad—too?" she asked.
Never had that final little monosyllable been charged with a message so significant. It shouted, it trumpeted its unmistakable meaning to him. But, to do him justice, he made one desperate effort to stifle it.
"No, no; it's dreadful; it is abominable," he said. "I—I had better go away. Maud, your friend. Philippine"
Again, as when Lucia walked across the pathway leading to the cricket-field, it was in her power to choose. Her tongue waited its orders from her brain; it would do as it was told; it would say certain words or certain other words. But short as had been her struggle then, it was shorter now; indeed, it was no struggle. All her life she had lived for her own amusement, her own greed of pleasure, and at the moment of crisis it was not to be expected that she would decide in a way that opposed and contradicted the whole trend of the million thoughts and impulses that had gone to make up the history of her grasping days. Never in all her life had she been unselfish or loyal, even when the cost of such dealing was light; it was not humanly possible that now, when the cost was heavier than any that had yet been demanded, she should act in a manner that was so unnatural to her.
But—here the calculating, scheming part of her brain spoke to her again—she saw that the impulse that made him speak like that was strong. The struggle that in her was non-existent was desperate for him, and while one word from her to encourage his loyalty, to help him in these sore straits, would have ended the matter, the wrong word to encourage the other side might end it too. That which he longed for and struggled to reject might revolt and disgust him into loyalty. She had to appear to be torn by the same firm forces that were rending him. She, who was so immeasurably the stronger of the two, had also to appeal to him, womanlike.
Again she drew a step nearer him, and laid her hand on his arm.
