s had Chat. But again I was, so I humbly trust,
no such churl as to resent the purpose--though I did not know precisely
what it was. I was her 'man,' as the old word was--her vassal. If my
liking or my honor refused that situation, well and good--I could end
it. While it lasted, I was hers. Within me the thing went deeper still
than that.

She was frightened. Therefore she was very gracious, seeking allies
however humble. I declare that I have always limited my expectation of
attachments entirely disinterested. Are there any? Who cherishes a
friend from whom there is neither profit nor pleasure to be had? Or, at
any rate, from whom neither has been had? The past obligation is often
acknowledged--and acquitted--with a five-pound note.

The westering sun caught her face through the window as we entered the
outskirts of Catsford; her eyes looked like a couple of new sovereigns.

"Yes, I'm frightened."

"Not you! You've courage enough for a dozen."

"Ah, I like you to say that! But I must make terms with him, you know."
She caught and pressed my hand. "But I don't believe I'm quite a
coward."

All this could mean but one thing--Octon had a great hold on her; yet
against him was a powerful incentive. Between the two--between his
power, which was great, and the power against him whose greatness she
had acknowledged to Fillingford that morning, she must patch up
conditions of peace--a secret treaty. I had no idea what the terms could
or would be. If Octon had the naming of them, they would not be easy.

Hatcham Ford just held its freedom against the encroaching town. No more
than fifty yards from its gates was the last villa--a red-brick house
of eccentric architecture but comfortable dimensions; its side windows
looked toward the gate of the Ford, and on the left its garden ran up to
the road on to which the shrubberies encircling the old house faced. A
tall oak fence surrounded the garden--on the gate was written, in large
gilt letters, "Ivydene." That house, like so many in Catsford, was on
Jenny's land. I wished that Cartmell would keep a tighter hand on his
builders.

Nearly swallowed by the flood of modern erections as it was, the old
house still preserved its sequestered charm. The garden was hidden from
the road by a close screen in front; at the back it ran gently down to
the murmuring river. Within were low ceilings crossed by old beams, and
oak paneling everywhere. Octon's tenancy and personality were marke