T was the sixth week, and still Rodney did not write; and Agatha was more and more afraid.
By this time she had definitely connected her fear with Harding Powell's dominion and persistence. She was certain now that what she could only call his importunity had proved somehow disastrous to Rodney Lanyon. And with it all, unacknowledged, beaten back, her desire to see Rodney ran to and fro in the burrows underground.
He did not write, but on the Friday of that week, the sixth week, he came.
She saw him coming up the garden path and she shrank back into her room; but the light searched her and found her, and he saw her there. He never knocked; he came straight and swiftly to her through the open doors. He shut the door of the room behind him and held her by her arms with both his hands.
"Rodney," she said, "did you mean to come, or did I make you?"
"I meant to come. You couldn't make me."
"Couldn't I? Oh say I couldn't."
"You could," he said, "but you didn't. And what does it matter so long as I'm here?"