had taken。 His emphasis might e from feelings more
personal than those science roused in him； but it was
disguised； and naturally he found it easy to expound and
explain。 Nevertheless； when he saw Katharine among the
orchids； her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic
plants； which seemed to peer and gape at her from
striped hoods and fleshy throats； his ardor for botany
waned； and a more plex feeling replaced it。 She fell
silent。 The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections。
In defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved
hand and touched one。 The sight of the rubies upon her
finger affected him so disagreeably that he started and
turned away。 But next moment he controlled himself； he
looked at her taking in one strange shape after another
with the contemplative； considering gaze of a person who
sees not exactly what is before him； but gropes in regions
that lie beyond it。 The faraway look entirely lacked
selfconsciousness。 Denham doubted whether she remembered
his presence。 He could recall himself； of course； by
a word or a movement—but why？ She was happier thus。
She needed nothing that he could give her。 And for him；
too； perhaps； it was best to keep aloof； only to know that
she existed； to preserve what he already had—perfect；
remote； and unbroken。 Further； her still look； standing
among the orchids in that hot atmosphere； strangely illustrated
some scene that he had imagined in his room
at home。 The sight； mingling with his recollection； kept
him silent when the door was shut and they were walking
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on again。
But though she did not speak； Katharine had an uneasy
sense that silence on her part was selfishness。 It was selfish
of her to continue； as she wished to do； a discussion of
subjects not remotely connected with any human beings。
She roused herself to consider their exact position upon
the turbulent map of the emotions。 Oh yes—it was a question
whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and
write a book； it was getting late； they must waste no more
time； Cassandra arrived tonight for dinner； she flinched
and roused herself； and discovered that she ought to be
holding something in her hands。 But they were empty。 She
held them out with an exclamation。
“I’ve left my bag somewhere—where？” The gardens had
no points of the pass； so far as she was concerned。
She had been walking for the most part on grass—that
was all she knew。 Even the road to the Orchid House had
now split itself into three。 But there was no bag in the
Orchid House。 It must； therefore； have been left upon the
seat。 They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner
of people who have to think about something that is
lost。 What did this bag look like？ What did it contain？
“A purse—a ticket—some letters； papers；” Katharine
counted； being more agitated as she recalled the list。
Denham went on quickly in advance of her； and she heard
him shout that he had found it before she reached the
seat。 In order to make sure that all was safe she spread
the contents on her knee。 It was a queer collection；
Denham thought； gazing with the deepest interest。 Loose
gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace； there
were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of
intimacy； there were two or three keys； and lists of missions
against which crosses were set at intervals。 But
she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a
certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what
it contained。 In her relief and gratitude she began at
once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham
had told her of his plans。
He cut her short。 “Don’t let’s discuss that dreary business。”
“But I thought—”
“It’s a dreary business。 I ought never to have bothered
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you—”
“Have you decided； then？”
He made an impatient sound。 “It’s not a thing that
matters。”
She could only say rather flatly； “Oh！”
“I mean it matters to me； but it matters to no one else。
Anyhow；” he continued； more amiably； “I see no reason
why you should be bothered with other people’s nuisances。”
She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her
weariness of this side of life。
“I’m afraid I’ve been absentminded；” she began； remembering
how often William had brought this charge
against her。
“You have a good deal to make you absentminded；” he
replied。
“Yes；” she replied； flushing。 “No；” she contradicted herself。
“Nothing particular； I mean。 But I was thinking about
plants。 I was enjoying myself。 In fact； I’ve seldom enjoyed
an afternoon more。 But I want to hear what you’ve
settled； if you don’t mind telling me。”
“Oh； it’s all settled；” he replied。 “I’m going to this infernal
cottage to write a worthless book。”
“How I envy you；” she replied； with the utmost sincerity。
“Well； cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a
week。”
“Cottages are to be had—yes；” she replied。 “The question
is—” She checked herself。 “Two rooms are all I should
want；” she continued； with a curious sigh； “one for eating；
one for sleeping。 Oh； but I should like another； a
large one at the top； and a little garden where one could
grow flowers。 A path—so—down to a river； or up to a
wood； and the sea not very far off； so that one could hear
the waves at night。 Ships just vanishing on the horizon—”
She broke off。 “Shall you be near the sea？”
“My notion of perfect happiness；” he began； not replying
to her question； “is to live as you’ve said。”
“Well； now you can。 You will work； I suppose；” she continued；
“you’ll work all the morning and again after tea
and perhaps at night。 You won’t have people always ing
about you to interrupt。”
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“How far can one live alone？” he asked。 “Have you tried
ever？”
“Once for three weeks；” she replied。 “My father and
mother were in Italy； and something happened so that I
couldn’t join them。 For three weeks I lived entirely by
myself； and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in
a shop where I lunched—a man with a beard。 Then I
went back to my room by myself and—well； I did what I
liked。 It doesn’t make me out an amiable character； I’m
afraid；” she added； “but I can’t endure living with other
people。 An occasional man with a beard is interesting；
he’s detached； he lets me go my way； and we know we
shall never meet again。 Therefore； we are perfectly sincere—
a thing not possible with one’s friends。”
“Nonsense；” Denham replied abruptly。
“Why ‘nonsense’？” she inquired。
“Because you don’t mean what you say；” he expostulated。
“You’re very positive；” she said； laughing and looking at
him。 How arbitrary； hottempered； and imperious he was！
He had asked her to e to Kew to advise him； he then
told her that he had settled the question already； he then
proceeded to find fault with her。 He was the very opposite
of William Rodney； she thought； he was shabby； his clothes
were badly made； he was ill versed in the amenities of life；
he was tonguetied and awkward to the verge of obliterating
his real character。 He was awkwardly silent； he was
awkwardly emphatic。 And yet she liked him。
“I don’t mean what I say；” she repeated goodhumoredly。
“Well—？”
“I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard
in life；” he answered significantly。
She flushed。 He had perated at once to the weak
spot—her engagement； and had reason for what he said。
He was not altogether justified now； at any rate； she was
glad to remember； but she could not enlighten him and
must bear his insinuations； though from the lips of a man
who had behaved as he had behaved their force should
not have been sharp。 Nevertheless； what he said had its
force； she mused； partly because he seemed unconscious
of his own lapse in the case of Mary Datchet； and thus
baffled her insight； partly because he always spoke with
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force； for what reason she did not yet feel certain。
“Absolute sincerity is rather difficult； don’t you think？”
she inquired； with a touch of irony。
“There are people one credits even with that；” he replied
a little vaguely。 He was ashamed of his savage wish
to hurt her； and yet it was not for the sake of hurting her；
who was beyond his shafts； but in order to mortify his
own incredibly reckless impulse of abandonment to the
spirit which seemed； at moments； about to rush him to
the uttermost ends of the earth。 She affected him beyond
the scope of his wildest dreams。 He seemed to see
that beneath the quiet surface of her manner； which was
almost pathetically at hand and within reach for all the
trivial demands of daily life； there was a spirit which she
reserved or repressed for some reason either of loneliness
or—could it be possible—of love。 Was it given to Rodney
to see her unmasked； unrestrained； unconscious of her
duties？ a creature of uncalculating passion and instinctive
freedom？ No