Marcella hesitated an instant, half angry with Wharton. Then she reddened and threw back her dark head with the passionate gesture Hallin had already noticed as characteristic.
"Mayn't I go where I belong?" she said—"where my convictions lead me?"
There was a moment's awkward silence. Then Hallin got up.
"Miss Boyce, may we see the house? Aldous has told me much of it."
* * * * *
Presently, in the midst of their straggling progress through the half-furnished rooms of the garden front, preceded by the shy footman carrying a lamp, which served for little more than to make darkness visible, Marcella found herself left behind with Aldous. As soon as she felt that they were alone, she realised a jar between herself and him. His manner was much as usual, but there was an underlying effort and difficulty which her sensitiveness caught at once. A sudden wave of girlish trouble—remorse—swept over her. In her impulsiveness she moved close to him as they were passing through her mother's little sitting-room, and put her hand on his arm.
"I don't think I was nice just now," she said, stammering. "I didn't mean it. I seem to be always driven into opposition—into a feeling of war—when you are so good to me—so much too good to me!"
Aldous had turned at her first word. With a long breath, as it were of unspeakable relief, he caught her in his arms vehemently, passionately. So far she had been very shrinking and maidenly with him in their solitary moments, and he had been all delicate chivalry and respect, tasting to the full the exquisiteness of each fresh advance towards intimacy, towards lover's privilege, adoring her, perhaps, all the more for her reserve, her sudden flights, and stiffenings. But to-night he asked no leave, and in her astonishment she was almost passive.
"Oh, do let me go!" she cried at last, trying to disengage herself completely.
"No!" he said with emphasis, still holding her hand firmly. "Come and sit down here. They will look after themselves."