had been busy with his throat. He put on a fresh tie, smoothed his
hair, and went down again. As he passed, he lingered a moment outside
her door.

Betty watching with red eyes and swollen lips saw him enter the fly,
saw him give an order, heard the door bang. The old coachman clambered
clumsily to his place, and the carriage lumbered down the drive.

"Oh, how cruel he is! He might have spoken to me _now_! I suppose he's
going to keep me waiting for days, as a penance. And I haven't really
done anything wrong. It's a shame! I've a good mind to run away!"

Running away required consideration. In the meantime, since he was out
of the house, there was no reason why she should not go downstairs.
She was not a child to be kept to her room in disgrace. She bathed her
distorted face, powdered it, and tried to think that the servants,
should they see her, would notice nothing.

Where had he gone? For no goal within his parish would a hired
carriage be needed. He had gone to Sevenoaks or to the station.
Perhaps he had gone to Westerham--there was a convent there, a
Protestant sisterhood. Perhaps he was going to make arrangements for
shutting her up there! Never!--Betty would die first. At least she
would run away first. But where could one run to?

The aunts? Betty loved the aunts, but she distrusted their age. They
were too old to sympathise really with her. They would most likely
understand as little as her step-father had done. An Inward Monitor
told Betty that the story of the fortune-telling, of the seven stolen
meetings with no love-making in them, would sound very unconvincing to