"What did he tell you, Walter?" she said.
"Very little. In fact, only that he had told you the way to Westerhouse; but that was quite enough. I do not know whether you told him that you loved him or not; but it is quite plain to me that you made him think so. Men of his kind do not betray those who believe in them without a reason."
"Walter," said the girl, very softly, "I wonder if—you—ever really loved me?"
Ingleby winced, but there was still no wavering in his eyes. "I do not know," he said. "You are the most beautiful woman I ever met, and I believed I did. Most likely your beauty and all that you stood for dazzled me, and I lost my head. It may have been that—I do not know—for if I had really loved you I should, perhaps, have forgiven you everything."
"And that is too much for you?"
Ingleby stood silent a moment. "If you had loved me, you would never have betrayed me. I am afraid it is."
Grace looked at him steadily, with the colour in her cheeks, and her voice was a little tremulous.
"Perhaps I wouldn't—like you, I do not know." Then she held out her hand. "Don't think too hardly of me. Good-bye, Walter."
Ingleby touched her fingers, for he dared not trust himself further, and swinging his shapeless hat off abruptly turned away, while Grace stood very still until the shadows of the pines closed about him. That was the last she ever saw of him.
It was half an hour later when he walked quietly into the bakery, and came upon Hetty getting her few belongings together.