to bear with her? You will go far before you
find virtue in which there is no dear sustaining comfort of self. For
my part, Adela is more to me for the imperfection, infinitely more to
me for the confession of it in her own mind. How can a woman be lovelier
than when most womanly, or more precious than when she reflects her own
weakness in clarity of soul?

As she made her way through the wood her trouble of conscience was lost
in deeper suffering. The scent of undergrowths, which always
brought back to her the glad days of maidenhood, filled her with the
hopelessness of the future. There was no return on the path of life;
every step made those memories of happiness more distant and thickened
the gloom about her. She could be strong when it was needful, could
face the world as well as any woman who makes a veil of pride for her
bleeding heart; but here, amid the sweet wood-perfumes, in silence and
secrecy, self-pity caressed her into feebleness. The light was dimmed
by her tears; she rather felt than saw her way. And thus, with moist
eyelashes, she came to her wonted resting-place. But she found her seat
occupied, and by the man whom in this moment she could least bear to
meet.

Hubert sat there, bareheaded, lost in thought. Her light footfall did
not touch his ear. He looked up to find her standing before him, and he
saw that she had been shedding tears. For an instant she was powerless
to direct herself; then sheer panic possessed her and she turned to
escape.

Hubert started to his feet.

'Mrs. Mutimer! Adela!'

The first name would not have stayed her, for her flight was as
unreasoning as that of a fawn. The second, her own name, uttered with
almost desperate appeal, robbed her of the power of movement. She turned
to bay, as though an obstacle had risen in her path, and there was
terror in her white face.

Hubert drew a little nearer and spoke hurriedly.

'Forgive me! I could not let you go. You seem to have come in answer to
my thought; I was wishing to see you. Do forgive me!'

She knew that he was examining her moist eyes; a rush of blood passed
over her features.

'Not unless you are willing,' Hubert pursued, his voice at its gentlest
and most courteous. 'But if I might speak to you for a few minutes--?'

'You have heard from Mr. Yottle?' Adela asked, without raising her eyes,
trying her utmost to speak in a merely natural way.

'Yes. I happened to be at my mother's house. He came last night to
o