Then he turned. He
struck a match, and Rose saw his face and hands illuminated like a
paper lantern. The match made a short, brilliant journey in the air
and fell extinguished. He had lighted his pipe and was advancing
towards her. She, too, advanced and stopped a few feet from him and at
once she said calmly, 'Was that Henrietta? I came to find her.'
He stammered something; she was afraid he was going to lie, yet at the
same time she knew that to hear him lie would give her pleasure; it
would be like the final shattering and trampling of her love: but he
did not lie.
'Yes, Henrietta,' he said sullenly. 'There are gipsies in the hollow.
I shall turn them out to-morrow.'
'Let them stay there,' she said, she knew not why.
'They're all thieves,' he muttered.
Neither spoke. It was like a dream to be standing there with him and
hearing Henrietta's footsteps tapping into silence. Then Rose asked in
genuine bewilderment, 'Why did you let her go home alone? Why did you
leave her here?'
'She wouldn't have me. She's safe now'; and raising his voice, he
almost cried, 'You shouldn't let her come here!' It was a cry for
help, he was appealing to her again, he was the victim of his habit.
She smiled and wondered if her pale face was as clear to him as his
was to her.
'No, I should not,' she said slowly. 'I should not. One does nothing
all one's life but make mistakes.' Her chief feeling at that moment
was one of self-disgust.
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