Tatham recovered himself with difficulty.
"Can't you—can't you ever care for me?" The voice was low, the eyes still hidden.
"We oughtn't to have been writing and meeting!" cried Lydia, in despair. "It was foolish, wrong! I see it now. I ask your pardon. We must say good-bye, Harry—and—oh!—oh!—I'm so sorry I let you—"
Her voice died away.
In the distance of the lane, a labourer emerged whistling from a gate, with his dog. Tatham's hands dropped to his sides; they walked on together as before. The man passed them with a cheerful good-night.
Tatham spoke slowly.
"Yes—perhaps—we'd better not meet. I can't—control myself. And I should go on offending you."
A chasm seemed to have opened between them. They turned and walked back to the gate of the cottage. When they reached it, Tatham crushed her hand again in his.
"Good-bye! If ever I can do anything to serve you—let me know! Good-bye!—dearest—dearest Lydia." His voice sank and lingered on the name. The lamp at the gate showed him that her eyes were swimming in tears.
"You'll forgive me?" she said, imploringly.