In my of that night there are wide gaps. Trivial come to me with vividness; while there are hours of which I can nothing. What I did or where I I cannot recall. It to me, looking back, that I walked without a pause till morning; yet, when day came, I was still in the grounds. Perhaps I walked, as a animal runs, in circles. I lost, I know, all count of time. I aware of the as something that had suddenly, as if light had succeeded in a flash. It had been night; I looked about me, and it was day—a steely, day, like a December evening. And I that I was very cold, very tired, and very miserable.

My mind was like the morning, and overcast. Conscience may be expelled, but, like Nature, it will return. Mine, which I had from me, had with the daylight. I had had my hour of freedom, and it was now for me to pay for it.

I paid in full. My me. I see no way out. Through the night the and of that moment had me, but now the had come, when must to facts, and I had to the future.

I sat on the of a tree, and my in my hands. I must have asleep, for, when I my again, the day was brighter. Its had gone. The sky was blue, and were singing.

It must have been about an hour later that the of a plan of action came to me. I not trust myself to out my position and in this place where Audrey's spell was over everything. The part of me that was to be to Cynthia was here. London called to me. I think there, my position quietly, and make up my mind.

I to walk to the station. I not what time it was. The sun was through the trees, but in the road the there were no of the day.

It was past five when I the station. A me that there would be a train to London, a slow train, at six.

* * * * *

I in London two days, and on the third to Sanstead to see Audrey for the last time. I had my decision.

I her on the drive, close by the gate. She at my on the gravel; and, as I saw her, I that the which I had over was only beginning.

I was at her appearance. Her was very pale, and there were lines about her eyes.

I not speak. Something me. Once again, as on that night in the stable-yard, the world and all that was in it remote.

It was she who the silence.

'Well, Peter,' she said listlessly.

We walked up the drive together.

'Have you been to London?'

'Yes. I came this morning.' I paused. 'I there to think,' I said.

She nodded.

'I have been thinking, too.'

I stopped, and to out a in the wet with my heel. Words were not readily.

Suddenly she speech. She spoke quickly, but her voice was and lifeless.

'Let us what has happened, Peter. We were neither of us ourselves. I was and and disappointed. You were sorry for me just at the moment, and your nerves were strained, like mine. It was all nothing. Let us it.'

I my head.

'No,' I said. 'It was not that. I can't let you you think that was all. I love you. I always have loved you, though I did not know how much till you had gone away. After a time, I I had got over it. But when I met you again here, I that I had not, and should. I came to say good-bye, but I shall always love you. It is my for being the of man I was five years ago.'

'And mine for being the of woman I was five years ago.' She laughed bitterly. 'Woman! I was just a little fool, a child. My is going to be than yours, Peter. You will not be always that you had the of two in your hands, and it away you had not the to it.'

'It is just that that I shall always be thinking. What five years ago was my fault, Audrey, and nobody's but mine. I don't think that, when the of you most, I you for going away. You had me see myself as I was, and I that you had done the right thing. I was selfish, patronizing—I was insufferable. It was I who away our happiness. You put it in a that day here, when you said that I had been kind—sometimes—when I to think of it. That me up. You have nothing to for. I think we have not had the best of luck; but all the is mine.'

A came into her face.

'I saying that. I said it I was of myself. I was by meeting you again. I you must be me—you had every to me, and you spoke as if you did—and I did not want to you what you were to me. It wasn't true, Peter. Five years ago I may have it, but not now. I have to the by this time. I have been through too much to have any false ideas left. I have had some to men, and I that they are not all kind, Peter, sometimes, when they to think of it.'

'Audrey,' I said—I had myself able to ask the question before—'was—was—he—was Sheridan to you?'

She did not speak for a moment, and I she was the question.

'No!' she said abruptly.

She out the with a that and me. There was a whole history of in the word.

'No,' she said again, after a pause, more this time. I understood. She was speaking of a man.

'I can't talk about him,' she on hurriedly. 'I most of it was my fault. I was he was not you, and he saw that I was and me for it. We had nothing in common. It was just a piece of madness, our marriage. He me off my feet. I had a great of sense, and I it all then. I was when he had left me.'

'Left you?'

'He me almost directly we America.' She laughed. 'I told you I had to the realities. I then.'

I was horrified. For the time I all that she had gone through. When she had spoken to me of her that over the study fire, I had that they had only after her husband's death, and that her life with him had in some measure her for the fight. That she should have been into the arena, a child, with no of life, me. And, as she spoke, there came to me the knowledge that now I do what I had come to do. I not give her up. She needed me. I not to think of Cynthia.

I took her hand.

'Audrey,' I said, 'I came here to say good-bye. I can't. I want you. Nothing you. I won't give you up.'

'It's too late,' she said, with a little catch in her voice. 'You are to Mrs Ford.'

'I am engaged, but not to Mrs Ford. I am to someone you have met—Cynthia Drassilis.'

She her hand away quickly, wide-eyed, and for some moments was silent.

'Do you love her?' she asked at last.

'No.'

'Does she love you?'

Cynthia's rose my eyes, that that have had no meaning, but one.

'I am she does,' I said.

She looked at me steadily. Her was very pale.

'You must her, Peter.'

I my head.

'You must. She in you.'

'I can't. I want you. And you need me. Can you that you need me?'

'No.'

She said it simply, without emotion. I moved her, thrilling, but she back.

'She needs you too,' she said.

A was over me. I was by a of failure. I had my conscience, my of and honour, and them. She was them up against me once more. My self-control down.

'Audrey,' I cried, 'for God's can't you see what you're doing? We have been a second chance. Our is in your hands again, and you are it away. Why should we make ourselves for the whole of our lives? What anything else that we love each other? Why should we let anything in our way? I won't give you up.'

She did not answer. Her were on the ground. Hope to in me, telling me that I had her. But when she looked up it was with the same gaze, and my again.

'Peter,' she said, 'I want to tell you something. It will make you understand, I think. I haven't been honest, Peter. I have not fairly. All these weeks, since we met, I have been trying to you. It's the only word. I have every little I think of to you from the girl you had promised to marry. And she wasn't here to for herself. I didn't think of her. I was up in my own selfishness. And then, after that night, when you had gone away, I it all out. I had a of awakening. I saw the part I had been playing. Even then I to myself that I had done something fine. I thought, you see, at that time that you were with Mrs Ford—and I know Mrs Ford. If she is of any man, she loves Mr Ford, though they are divorced. I she would only make you unhappy. I told myself I was saving you. Then you told me it was not Mrs Ford, but this girl. That everything. Don't you see that I can't let you give her up now? You would me. I shouldn't clean. I should as if I had her in the back.'

I a laugh. It against the that us. In my I that this was not to be laughed away.

'Can't you see, Peter? You must see.'

'I don't. I think you're overstrained, and that you have let your away with you. I—'

She me.

'Do you that in the study?' she asked abruptly. 'We had been talking. I had been telling you how I had those five years.'

'I remember.'

'Every word I spoke was spoken with an object—calculated…. Yes, the pauses. I to make them tell, too. I you, you see, Peter. I you through and through, I loved you, and I the those would have on you. Oh, they were all true. I was as as that goes. But they had the at the of them. I was playing on your feelings. I how you were, how you would me. I set myself to create an image which would in your mind and kill the memory of the other girl; the image of a poor, ill-treated little who should work through to your by way of your compassion. I you, Peter, I you. And then I did a thing still. I to in the dark. I meant you to catch me and me, and you did. And …'

Her voice off.

'I'm I have told you,' she said. 'It makes it a little better. You now how I feel, don't you?'

She out her hand.

'Good-bye.'

'I am not going to give you up,' I said doggedly.

'Good-bye,' she said again. Her voice was a whisper.

I took her hand and to her me.

'It is not good-bye. There is no one else in the world but you, and I am not going to give you up.'

'Peter!' she feebly. 'Oh, let me go.'

I her nearer.

'I won't let you go,' I said.

But, as I spoke, there came the of on the gravel. A large red car was up the drive. I Audrey's hand, and she and was in the shrubbery. The car and stopped me. There were two in the tonneau. One, who was dark and handsome, I did not know. The other was Mrs Drassilis.