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and stood looking at him, one hand up to her neck, in a gesture he remembered only too clearly.
    He felt nothing but a cold anger.
    â€œI’m sorry we burst upon you as we did,” he answered, very quietly. “Naturally, if I’d known, it would have been the last thing I’d have done.”
    â€œYou haven’t forgiven me—even now?”
    He said, impatiently, “Really, Miriam, need we talk like a third-rate magazine? There isn’t the slightest need for anything of the sort. You had a perfect right to alter your mind. Only of course it wasn’t on Davenport’s account. I have forgotten whose, but I’m sure his name wasn’t Henry.”
    â€œYou are cruel,” she said, and two large tears rose in her big dark eyes. “I made a terrible mistake about George. It was George Banks. Perhaps you didn’t know him. I wrote to tell you it was a mistake.”
    â€œI never had any letter.”
    She reddened slightly, and her eyes fell before his accusing face.
    â€œI meant to write,” she said, in a low voice.
    He laughed.
    â€œYou were always a prize liar. But we needn’t go into that, either. We needn’t rake up any of the past. It was finished eight years ago.”
    â€œAre you married, Giles?”
    He shook his head, beginning to walk on again. His anger had died, but he longed to finish this unprofitable conversation. He went on, but he could hear Miriam, on the narrow path behind him, following in his footsteps. When he reached the landing-stage he paused, waiting for the others. Miriam stood still, watching him.
    Without meaning to, he went on where they had left off.
    â€œNever mind about me,” he said. “The point is you married this chap, Davenport, and you have a fine house, and—and—”
    â€œAnd I have nothing to complain of?” said Miriam. “Is that what you mean?”
    â€œWell, I’m right, aren’t I?”
    The eyes widened. He felt, against reason, against outraged pride, the old surge of anxious distress for her predicament. Her palpable anxiety flooded into his own being, though he fought against it with all his maturer self.
    â€œI am afraid,” she whispered.
    Giles stared at her. She had always exaggerated: she was a prize liar, she loved, and lived for, sensation, however childishly contrived. But in spite of his knowledge of her, his reviving painful memories, he could not help being impressed.
    In an impulse to escape from the situation he had begun to move along the landing-stage, level now, as the water had only just begun to go down.
    â€œHelp me, Giles,” she went on, her voice rising. “You must help me!”
    He had to look back at her. He was too far away to speak comforting words. He could not shout them. It was a ridiculous position; he wanted to laugh, but he could not. That white face, those terrified eyes, stopped mirth. Liar she might be, but there always was, there always had been, he corrected himself, some background to her fantasies. So he walked back again, and stood over her.
    â€œWhat exactly do you mean?” he asked, in a voice loaded with contempt and unbelief.
    Miriam lifted her hand, listening.
    â€œThe others,” she said. “Another time.” She added, in a rapid undertone, looking up at him, “You aren’t really angry with me, are you, Giles? It seemed a miracle when I saw you from the window. I thought I was saved. I need help. I do need help. You must believe me.”
    He did not believe her, but again he felt the dread chill of her anguish, which was real, however imaginary its cause. He had to protect himself against it.
    â€œI’m sorry if you are upset over something,” he said, tritely. “I don’t expect it’s as bad as you think. But I’m not much use to you, I’m afraid. We are going up river after tea, and on to Lézardrieux tomorrow.”
    The rest of the party joined them on