Oh yes, he saw her drift. He knew that what she expected of him was
incessant penitence. But, after all, it was difficult to feel much
abasement for a fault committed quite a number of years ago and
sufficiently repented of at the time. He had settled his account, and
it was hard that he should be made to pay twice over. To-night his mood
was strangely out of harmony with Lent.

Anne slackened her pace to intimate as much to him. Whereupon he lapsed
into strange and disturbing legends of his childhood. He told her he had
early weaned himself from the love of Lenten Services, observing their
effect upon the unfortunate lady, his aunt, who had brought him up.
Punctually at twelve o'clock on Palm Sunday, he said, the poor soul,
exhausted with her endeavours after the Christian life, would fly into
a passion, and punctually would rise from it at the same hour on Easter
Day. For quite a long time he had believed that that was why they called
it Passion Week.

She moaned "Oh, Walter--don't!" as if he had hurt her, while she
repressed the play of a little, creeping, curling, mundane smile.

If he would only leave her! But, as they crossed to the curbstone, he
changed over, preserving his proper place. He leaned to her with the
indestructible attention of a lover. His whole manner was inimitably
chivalrous, protective, and polite.

Anne hardened her heart against him. At the church gate she turned and
faced him coldly.

"If you're not going in," said she, "you needn't come any further."