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Penelope could not say. Alone with Lady Haigh, it was easy to agree that woman was an independent being, with a life and rights of her own; but she would never have dreamt of asserting this to Colin, to whom a woman was a more or less necessary complement to a man. Ferrers needed her, therefore she would naturally accept the charge—that was his view.

“Would you wish me to marry him as he is now?” she asked desperately.

“No,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration: “I am not quite happy about him, and that is why I am most anxious you should be kind to him. With your sympathy to help him on, and the hope of claiming you at last, he will find the path much easier to climb. Surely this is not too much to ask?”

It sounded eminently fair and reasonable, but Penelope felt that it was not. There was a flaw somewhere which Colin did not see, and she could not point out to him, even if she could be sure that she saw it herself. Ferrers did not care for her, she was convinced, even in the careless, patronising style of his early days, and yet he insisted on keeping her bound. But perhaps he loved her in some strange fashion of his own, of which she could have no experience or conception. And Colin thought that the sacrifice was called for. She turned to him.