CHAPTER IX.
'Her father did fume' Oppressed, in spite of themselves, by a foresight of impending complications, Elfride and Stephen returned down the hill hand in hand.
At the door they paused wistfully, like children late at school.
Women accept their destiny more readily than men.

Elfride had now resigned herself to the overwhelming idea of her lover's sorry antecedents; Stephen had not forgotten the trifling grievance that Elfride had known earlier admiration than his own.
'What was that young man's name ?' he inquired.
'Felix Jethway; a widow's only son.' 'I remember the family.' 'She hates me now.

She says I killed him.' Stephen mused, and they entered the porch.
'Stephen, I love only you,' she tremulously whispered.

He pressed her fingers, and the trifling shadow passed away, to admit again the mutual and more tangible trouble.
The study appeared to be the only room lighted up.

They entered, each with a demeanour intended to conceal the inconcealable fact that reciprocal love was their dominant chord.