an insulted goddess of her to
Lane's fancy--'what right have you to say that I have changed?'

'Why, Bertha,' he said, meekly and strickenly, 'wasn't I to come in six
months' time and get an answer?'

'Will you oblige me by coming for your answer in six months' time,'
answered Bertha. 'Good-afternoon, Mr. Protheroe.'

Bertha thought herself more cruel to herself than to him. She knew how
infinitely more cruel she was to Thistlewood, but that was not a thing
to be avoided. She and he alike must suffer--she in giving pain and he
in bearing it. Bertha's heart ached over Lane, and the bitterness of it
was to know that in a week or two the butterfly nature would have ceased
to care. He was hotly in love to-day, no doubt, but he would be out
of love to-morrow, may be, and in a month or two hotly in love again
elsewhere.

On the Sunday following these interviews dogged John was at church, and
the butterfly Protheroe also. Thistlewood looked as he always
looked, rudely healthy, and a masterpiece of masterfulness and sullen
perseverance and resolve. Lane was pallid and miserable, and Bertha
remarking him was compelled to fall back on the bitter consolation of
her former thoughts. He would take it heavily for a day or two, and
would then forget all about it. He cast a glance or two in Bertha's
direction, and his eyes were full of melancholy appeal. But for her
certainty he would have moved her, for she was predisposed to be moved,
and she had hardly expected to have had so much effect upon him.
He walked dejectedly out of church at the close of the service, and
Thistlewood half by accident shouldered him. He took it meekly, and made
no sign.

Two or three days later came a piece of news of the sort Bertha had
expected. Mr. Protheroe was heard of as having made one of a picnic
party in the neighbourhood of Heydon Hey, and of this party he was said
to have been the life and soul. He was reported to have paid marked
attentions to Miss Badger, daughter of a wealthy cheesemonger in Castle
Barfield High Street. The young lady was rumoured to be possessed of
great personal attractions, and a pretty penny, present and prospective.

Foreseen as it was, the news stung a little when it came. Even the most
butterfly-like of lovers might have waited a little longer!

And yet next Sunday, when Bertha went to church, quite resolved not to
waste so much as a glance upon him, he looked paler and more dejected
than he had done a week ago.