.
Perhaps no man before had ever shown an appreciation of her qualities
as woman. But she would not yield, was in no real danger from his
love-making. Nay, the danger was to his own peace. He felt that
resistance would intensify the ardour of his wooing, and possibly end
by making him a victim of genuine passion. Well, let her enjoy that
triumph, if she were capable of winning it.

He had made up his mind to outstay the Widdowsons, who clearly would
not make a long call. But the fates were against him. Another visitor
arrived, a lady named Cosgrove, who settled herself as if for at least
an hour. Worse than that, he heard her say to Rhoda,--

'Oh, then do come and dine with us. Do, I beg!'

'I will, with pleasure,' was Miss Nunn's reply. 'Can you wait and take
me with you?'

Useless to stay longer. As soon as the Widdowsons had departed he went
up to Rhoda and silently offered his hand. She scarcely looked at him,
and did not in the least return his pressure.

Rhoda dined at Mrs. Cosgrove's, and was home again at eleven o'clock.
When the house was locked up, and the servants had gone to bed, she sat
in the library, turning over a book that she had brought from her
friend's house. It was a volume of essays, one of which dealt with the
relations between the sexes in a very modern spirit, treating the
subject as a perfectly open one, and arriving at unorthodox
conclusions. Mrs. Cosgrove had spoken of this dissertation with lively
interest. Rhoda perused it very carefully, pausing now and then to
reflect.

In this reading of her mind, Barfoot came near the truth.

No man had ever made love to her; no man, to her knowledge, had ever
been tempted to do so. In certain moods she derived satisfaction from
this thought, using it to strengthen her life's purpose; having passed
her thirtieth year, she might take it as a settled thing that she would
never be sought in marriage, and so could shut the doors on every
instinct tending to trouble her intellectual decisions. But these
instincts sometimes refused to be thus treated. As Miss Barfoot told
her, she was very young for her years, young in physique, young in
emotion. As a girl she had dreamt passionately, and the fires of her
nature, though hidden beneath aggregations of moral and mental
attainment, were not yet smothered. An hour of lassitude filled her
with despondency, none the less real because she was ashamed of it. If
only she had once been loved, like other women