Rigden and lost it with Theodore, and was in a pretty bad temper
with herself to boot; but that is a minor matter; it does not drive the
blood to the brain; it need not obscure every point of view but one. And
there were but two worthy of Moya's consideration.

There was her own point of view, and there was Rigden's. Moya took first
innings; she was the woman, after all.

She began with the beginning of this visit--this visit that the almanac
pretended was but fifty hours old after all these days and nights: Well,
to believe it, and go back to the first night: they had been happy
enough then, still happier next day, happiest of all in the afternoon.
Moya could see the shadows and feel the heat, and hear Rigden wondering
whether she would ever care for the place, and her own light-hearted
replies; but there she checked herself, and passed over the memorable
end of that now memorable conversation, and took the next phase in due
order.

Of course she had been angry; anybody of any spirit, similarly placed,
would have resented being deserted by the hour together for the first
wayfarer. And the lie made it worse; and the refusal to explain matters
made the lie incalculably worse. He had put her in an abominable
position, professing to love her all the time. How could she believe in
such love? Love and trust were inseparable in her mind. Yet he had not
trusted her for a moment; even when she stooped to tell a lie herself,
to save him, even then he could not take her into his confidence. It was
the least he could have done after that; it was the very least that she
had earned.

Most of the next day--to-day!--even Moya shirked. Why had it laid such a
hold upon her--the bush--the bush life--the whole thing? Was it the mere
infection of a real enthusiasm? Or was it but the meretricious glamour
of the foregone, and would the fascination have been as great if all had
still been well? Moya abandoned these points; they formed a side issue
after all. Her mind jumped to the final explanation--still ringing in
her ears. It was immeasurably worse than all the rest, in essence, in
significance, in result. The result mattered least; there was little
weakness in Moya; she would have snapped her fingers at the world for
the man she loved. But how could she forgive his first deceit, his want
of trust in her to the end? And how could she think for another moment
of marrying a man whom she could not possibly forgive?

She did not think of