"This will be good-night and good-bye," said Harding. "I shall be gone before you are down in the morning."
Even as he spoke he was thinking how completely his bitter folly had exiled him from her presence.
"You are going home?"
"Home? Well, yes, I suppose so. By the way, I don't know that I shall go home to-morrow. I may have to stay another day in Mitchelhurst. That depends—I shall see when the morning comes. Your uncle's jurisdiction doesn't extend beyond the grounds of the Place, I suppose. I won't trespass, he may be very sure of that, and I won't stay in the neighbourhood any longer than I can help. Only, you see, this is rather a sudden change of plans."
"I am so sorry," the girl repeated. "I hate to think of your going away like this. I'm ashamed!"
"No! no! I'm rightly served, though you needn't tell Mr. Hayes I said so. I was fool enough to let my temper get the upper hand, and I must pay the penalty. How I could be such an inconceivable idiot—but that's neither here nor there. It was my own fault, and the less said about it the better."
Barbara shook her head.
"No, it was my fault."
This time Harding really smiled, drearily enough, but still it was a smile.
"Yours?" he said. "That never occurred to me. How do you make it out?"