stubborn by pressure. She herself had come fully to
believe that she did not love him. She was quite sure she did not
love him. But out of a certain perversity, she wanted to go.

Came his letter from Sydney, and one from his parents to her and one
to her parents. All seemed straightforward--not _very_ cordial, but
sufficiently. Over Alexander's letter Miss Frost shed bitter tears.
To her it seemed so shallow and heartless, with terms of endearment
stuck in like exclamation marks. He semed to have no thought, no
feeling for the girl herself. All he wanted was to hurry her out
there. He did not even mention the grief of her parting from her
English parents and friends: not a word. Just a rush to get her out
there, winding up with "And now, dear, I shall not be myself till I
see you here in Sydney--Your ever-loving Alexander." A selfish,
sensual creature, who would forget the dear little Vina in three
months, if she did not turn up, and who would neglect her in six
months, if she did. Probably Miss Frost was right.

Alvina knew the tears she was costing all round. She went upstairs
and looked at his photograph--his dark and impertinent muzzle. Who
was _he_, after all? She did not know him. With cold eyes she looked
at him, and found him repugnant.

She went across to her governess's room, and found Miss Frost in a
strange mood of trepidation.

"Don't trust me, dear, don't trust what I say," poor Miss Frost
ejaculated hurriedly, even wildly. "Don't notice what I have said.
Act for yourself, dear. Act for yourself entirely. I am sure I am
wrong in trying to influence you. I know I am wrong. It is wrong and
foolish of me. Act just for yourself, dear--the rest doesn't matter.
The rest doesn't matter. Don't take _any_ notice of what I have
said. I know I am wrong."

For the first time in her life Alvina saw her beloved governess
flustered, the beautiful white hair looking a little draggled, the
grey, near-sighted eyes, so deep and kind behind the gold-rimmed
glasses, now distracted and scared. Alvina immediately burst into
tears and flung herself into the arms of Miss Frost. Miss Frost also
cried as if her heart would break, catching her indrawn breath with
a strange sound of anguish, forlornness, the terrible crying of a
woman with a loving heart, whose heart has never been able to relax.
Alvina was hushed. In a second, she became the elder of the two. The
terrible poignancy of the woman of fifty-two, who now at last h