Christian took herself seriously to task for this overwhelming, cowardly fear.
What had she really to dread?
What harm could he do her--the bad man of whom she had so ignorantly made a girl's ideal?
The only testimony thereof was her letters, if he still had them in his possession-- her poor, innocent, girlish letters--very few--just two or three.

Foolish they might have been, sentimental and ridiculous, but she could not remember any thing wrong in them--any thing that a girl in her teens need blush to have written, either to friend or lover, save for the one fact that, a girl is wiser to have no friend at all among men--except her lover.

And, whatever they were, most likely he had destroyed them long ago.
"No, no," she thought, "he can not do me any harm; he dare not!" It was difficult to say what Sir Edwin Uniacke would not dare; for, going back to her room for some trifle forgotten, she discovered that he was still lounging, cigar in mouth, up and down the river-side avenue opposite, where he could plainly see and be seen from almost every window in the Lodge.
And there, hurrying to meet him, she saw Susan Bennett.

But the meeting appeared not satisfactory, and after a few minutes the girl had left him and he was again seen walking up and down alone.
A vain woman might have been flattered, perhaps allured, by this persistence.

In Christian it produced only repulsion, actual hatred, if so gentle a spirit could hate.