he stayed beside the desk for a long time, turning the papers over and over, reading, as she long afterwards remembered, the beginning of one letter many times: "dear victoria—if you take the 3.45 from waterloo that will get you to us in nice time for tea. the motor shall meet you at the station."

"the motor shall meet you at the station. . . . the motor shall meet you at the station. . . ."

well, and why shouldn't it? how easy for motors to meet trains—that is, if you have a motor. but motors are expensive these days, and then there is the petrol—and the chauffeur must cost something. . . . but that's all right if you can drive yourself—drive yourself. . . . she pulled herself up. where was she? oh, in victoria's sitting-room. how hot the room was! and the beginning of october. how hot and how empty! then as though something cut her just beneath the heart, she started. she put her hand to her forehead. her head was aching horribly. she would go home. she knew that victoria would not mind.

her only dominant impulse then was to be out of that house, that house that reminded her with every step she took of something that she must forget—but what she must forget she did not know.

in the hall she found her hat and coat. beppo was there.

"beppo," she said, "tell miss victoria that i have a headache and have gone home. she'll understand."

"yes, miss," he said, grinning at her in that especially confidential way that he had with those whom he considered his friends.

in the street she took a taxi, something very foreign to her economic habits. but she wanted to hide herself from every[pg 269]body. no one must see her and stop her and ask her questions that she could not answer. and she must get home quickly so that she might go into her own room and shut her door and be safe.

in the sitting-room she found mary cass sitting at the table with a pile of books in front of her, nibbling a pencil.

"hullo!" cried mary. "you back already?"

then she jumped up, the book falling from her hand to the floor.

"darling, what's the matter? . . . what's happened?"

"why, do i look funny?" said millie smiling. "there's nothing the matter. i've got an awful headache—that's all. i'm going to lie down."

but mary had her arms around her. "millie, what is it? you look awful. are you feeling ill?"

"no, only my headache." millie gently disengaged herself from mary's embrace. "i'm going into my room to lie down."

"shall i get something for you? let me——"

"please leave me alone, mary dear. i want to be left alone. that's all i want."

she went into her bedroom, drew down the blinds, lay down on her bed, closing her eyes. how weak and silly she was to come home just for a headache, to give up her morning's work without an effort because she felt a little ill! think of all the girls in the shops and the typists and the girl secretaries and the omnibus girls and all the others, they can't go home just because they have a headache—just because . . .

mary cass had come in and very quietly had laid on her forehead a wet handkerchief with eau-de-cologne. ah! that was better! that was cool. she faded away down into space where there was trouble and disorder and pain, trouble in which she had some share but was too lazy to inquire what.

then she awoke sharply with a jerk, as though some one had pushed her up out of darkness into light. the marylebone church clock was striking. first the quarters. then four o'clock very slowly. . . . she was wide awake now and realized everything. it was the middle of the afternoon and she had been asleep for hours. her head was still aching very badly but it did not keep her back now as it had done.

[pg 270]

she knew now what had happened. she had seen the last of bunny, the very, very last. she would never see him again, nor hear his voice again, nor feel his kiss on her cheek.

and at first there was the strangest relief. the matter was settled then, and that confusing question that had been disturbing her for so many months. there would be no more doubts about bunny, whether he were truthful or no, why he did not take her to his mother, whether he would write every day, and why a letter was suddenly cold when yesterday's letter had been so loving, as to why they had so many quarrels. . . . no, no more quarrels, no more of that dreadful pain in the heart and wondering whether he would telephone or whether her pride would break first and she would speak to him. relief, relief, relief—— relief connected in some way with the little dancing circle of afternoon sunlight on the white ceiling, connected with the things on her dressing-table, the purple pin-cushion, the silver-backed brushes that katherine had given her, the slanting sheet of looking-glass that reflected the end of her bed and the chair and the piece of blue carpet. relief. . . . she turned over, resting her head on her hand, looking at the pearl-grey wall-paper. relief! . . . and she would never see him again, never hear his voice again! some one in the room with her uttered a sharp, bitter cry. who was it? she was alone. then the knife plunged deep into her heart, plunged and plunged again, turning over and over. the pain was so terrible that she put her hand over her eyes lest she should see this other woman who was there with her suffering so badly. no, but it was herself. it was she who would never see bunny again, never hear his voice.

she sat up, her hands clenched, summoning control and self-command with all the strength that was in her soul. she must not cry, she must not speak. she must stare her enemy in the face, beat him down. well, then. she and bunny were parted. he did not belong to her. he belonged to that poor girl of whose baby he was the father.

she fought then, for twenty minutes, the hardest battle of her life—the struggle to face the facts. the facts were, quite simply, that she could never be with bunny any more, and worse[pg 271] than that, that he did not belong to her any more but to another woman.

she had not arrived yet at any criticism of him—perhaps that would never be. when a woman loves a man he is a child to her, so simple, so young, so ignorant, that his faults, his crimes, his deceits are swallowed in his babyhood. bunny had behaved abominably—as ill as any man could behave; she did not yet see his behaviour, but when it came to her she would say that she should have been there to care for him and then it would never have been. she was to remember later, and with a desperate, wounding irony, how years before, when she had been the merest child and katherine had been engaged to philip, henry had discovered that philip had once in russia had a mistress who had borne him a child.

millie, when she had heard this, had poured indignant scorn upon the suggestion that katherine should leave her lover because of this earlier affair. had it not all had its history before katherine had known philip? how ironic a parallel here! did not millie's indignant, brave, fearless youth rise up here to challenge her? no, that other woman had surrendered philip long, long before. this woman . . . poor child—— only nineteen and the village mocking her, waiting for her child with scorn and coarse gossip and taunting sneers!

she got up, bathed her face, her eyes dry and hot, her cheeks flaming, brushed her hair and went into the sitting-room.

no one was there, only the evening sun like a kindly spirit moving from place to place, touching all with gentle, tender fingers. strange that she could have slept for so long! she would never sleep again—never. always would she watch, untouched, unmoved, that strange, coloured, leaping world moving round and round before her, moving for others, for their delight, their pain, but only for her scorn.

mary cass came in with her serious face and preoccupied air.

"hullo mill! head better?"

"yes, thanks."

"that's good. had a sleep?"

"yes."

"splendid. . . . lord, i've got plenty of work here. i don't know what they think we're made of. talk about stuffing geese[pg 272] to get foie-gras! people say that's wicked. nothing to what they do to us. had any tea?"

"no."

"want any?"

"no thanks."

"do your head good. but i daresay you're right. i'm going to have some though."

she moved about busying herself in her calm efficient way, lighting the spirit lamp, getting out the cups, cutting the bread.

"sure you won't have some?"

"no thanks."

tactful mary was—none of that awful commiseration, no questions.

a good pal, but how far away, what infinite distance!

millie took the book that was nearest to her, opened it and read page after page without seeing the words.

then a sentence caught her.

"nor is it altogether the remembrance of her cathedral stopping earthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; nor the tearlessness of arid skies that never rain. . . ."

"the tearlessness of arid skies that never rain?" how strange a phrase! what was this queer book? she read on. "thus when the muffled rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of the festooned frosts of mountains; the desolate shiftings of the windrowed snows of prairies; all these, to ishmael, are as the shaking of that buffalo robe to the frightened colt!"

the murmuring of the wonderful prose consoled her, lulled her. she read on and on. what a strange book! what was it about? she could not tell. it did not matter. about the sea. . . .

"what's that you're reading, mill?"

she looked back to the cover.

"moby-dick."

"what a name! i wonder how it got here."

"perhaps henry left it."

"i daresay. he's always reading something queer."

the comfortable little clock struck seven.

"you'd better eat something, you know."

[pg 273]

"no thank you, mary."

"look here, mill—you won't tell me what the trouble is?"

"not now. . . . later on."

"all right. sorry, old dear. but every trouble passes."

"yes, i know."

she read on for an hour. the little clock struck eight. she put the book down.

"i'll go to bed now i think."

"right oh! nothing i can get you?"

"no. i'm all right."

"shall i come and sleep with you?"

"oh, no!"

she crossed and kissed her friend, then quietly went to her room. she undressed, switched off the light, and lay on her back staring. a terrible time was coming, the worst time of all. she knew what it would be—remembering things. remembering everything, every tiny, tiny little thing. oh, if that would only leave her alone for to-night, until to-morrow when she would endure it more easily. but now. they were coming, creeping towards her across the floor, in at the window, in at the door, from under the bed.

"i don't want to remember! i don't want to remember!" she cried.

then they came, in a long endless procession, crowding eagerly with mocking laughter one upon another! that first day of all when she had quarrelled with victoria and she had come downstairs to find him waiting for her, when they had sat upon her boxes, his arm round her. when they had walked across the park and he had given her tea. after their first quarrel which had been about nothing at all, and he had sent her flowers, when he had caught her eye across the luncheon-table at victoria's and they had laughed at their own joke, their secret joke, and clarice had seen them and been so angry. . . . yes, and moments caught under flashing sunlight, gathering dusk—moments at cladgate, dancing in the hotel with the rain crackling on the glass above them, sudden movements of generosity and kindliness when his face had been serious, grave, involved consciously in some holy quest . . . agonizing moments of waiting for him, feeling sure that he would not come, then[pg 274] suddenly seeing him swing along, his eyes searching for her, lighting at the sight of her. . . . his hand seeking hers, finding it, hers soft against the cool strength of his . . . jokes, jokes, known only to themselves, nicknames that they gave, funny points of view they had, "men like trees walking," presents, a little jade box that he had given her, the silver frame for his photograph, a tennis racket. . . .

oh, no, no, shut it out! i can't hear it any longer! if you come to me still i must go to him, find him, tell him i love him whatever it is that he has done, and that i will stay with him, be with him, hear his voice. . . .

she sat up, her hands to her head, the frenzy of another woman beating now in her brain. she did not know the hour nor the place; the world on every side of her was utterly still, you might hear the minutes like drops of water falling into the pool of silence. she saw it a vast inverted bowl gleaming white against the deep blue of the sky shredded with stars. on the edge of this bowl she was walking perilously, as on a rope over space.

she had slept—but now she was awake, clear-headed, seeing everything distinctly, and what she saw was that she must go to bunny, must find him, must tell him that she would never leave him again.

she was now so clear about it because the peril she saw in front of her was her loneliness. to go on, living for ever and ever in a completely empty world, walking round and round on that ridge above that terrible shining silence—could that be expected of any one? no. seriously she spoke aloud, shaking her head: "i can't be supposed to endure that."

she got out of bed and dressed very carefully, very cautiously, realizing quite clearly that she must not wake mary cass, who would certainly stop her from going to find bunny. time did not occur to her, only she saw that the moonlight was shining into her room throwing milky splashes upon the floor, and these she avoided as though they would contaminate her, walking carefully around them as she dressed. she went softly into the sitting-room, softly down the stairs, softly into the street. she was wearing her little crimson hat because that was one that he liked.

[pg 275]

she stayed for a moment in the street marvelling at its coolness and silence. the night breeze touched her cheek caressing her. yes, the sky blazed with stars—blazed! and the houses were ebony black, like rocks over still deep water.

everything around her seemed to give, at regular intervals, little shudders of ecstasy—a quiver in which she also shared. she walked down the street with rapid steps, her face set with serious determination. the sooner to reach bunny! no one impeded her. it seemed to her that as she advanced the rocks grew closer about her, hanging more thickly overhead and shutting out the stars.

she was nearing the park. there were trees, festoons above the water making dark patterns and yet darker shadows.

under the trees she met a woman. she stopped and the woman stopped.

"you're out late," the woman said; then as millie said nothing but only stared at her she went on, laughing affectedly—"good evening or morning i should say. it's nearly four."

she stared at millie with curiosity. "which way you going? i'm for home. great portland street. been back once to-night already. but i thought i'd make a bit more. had no luck the second time."

"am i anywhere near turner's hotel?" millie asked politely.

"turner's hotel, dear? and where might that be?"

"off jermyn street."

"jermyn street! you walk down park lane and then down piccadilly. are you new to london?"

"oh, no, i'm not new," said millie very seriously. "i couldn't sleep so i came out for a walk."

the woman looked at her more closely. she was a very thin woman with a short tightly-clinging skirt and a face heavily powdered.

"here, we'd better be moving a bit, dear, or the bobby will be on us. you do look tired. i don't think i've seen you about before."

"yes, i am tired."

"well, so's myself if you want to know. but i've been working a bit too hard lately. want to save enough for a fortnight's[pg 276] holiday. glebeshire. that's where i come from. of course i wouldn't go back to my own place—not likely. but i'd like to see the fields and hedges again. bit different from the rotten country round london."

millie suddenly stopped.

"it's very late to go now, isn't it?" she asked. "in the middle of the night. he'll think it strange, won't he?"

"i should guess he would," said the woman, tittering. "why, you're only a child. you've no right to be wandering about like this. you don't know what you're doing."

"it was just because i couldn't sleep," said millie very gravely. "but i see i've done wrong. i can't disturb him this hour of the night."

she stumbled a little, her knees suddenly trembling. the woman put her arm around her. "steady!" she said. "here, you're ill. you'd better be getting home. where do you live?"

"one hundred and sixteen baker street."

"i'll take you. . . . there's a taxi. why, you're nothing but a kid!"

in the taxi millie leant her head on the woman's shoulder.

"i'm very tired but i can't sleep," she said.

"you're in some trouble i guess," the woman said.

"yes, i am. terrible trouble," said millie.

"some man i suppose. it's always the men."

"what's your name?" asked millie. "you're very kind."

"rose bennett," said the woman. "but don't you remember it. i'm much better forgotten by a child like you. why, i'm old enough to be your mother."

the taxi stopped. millie paid for it.

"give me a kiss, will you?" asked the woman.

"why, of course i will," said millie. she kissed her on the lips.

"don't you go out alone at night like that," said the woman. "it isn't safe."

"no, i won't," said millie.

she let herself in. the sitting-room was just as it had been, very quiet, so terribly quiet.

she had no thought but that she must not be alone. she[pg 277] opened mary's door. she went in. mary's soft breathing came to her like the voice of the room.

she took a chair and sat down and stared at the bed. . . . the marylebone church struck half-past seven and woke mary. she looked up, staring, then in the dim light saw millie sitting there.

"why, millie! you! all dressed. . . . good heavens, what's the matter!"

she sprang out of bed.

"why, you haven't even taken off your hat! millie darling, what is it?"

"i couldn't sleep so i went out for a walk and then i didn't want to be alone so i came in here."

mary gave her one look, then hurriedly throwing on her dressing-gown went into the next room, saying as she went:

"stay there, mill dear. . . . i'll be back, in a moment."

she carefully closed the door behind her then went to the telephone.

"6345 gerrard, please. . . . yes, is that—? yes, i want to speak to mr. trenchard, please—oh, i know he's asleep. of course, but this is very serious. illness. yes. he must come at once. . . . oh, is that you, henry? sorry to make you come down at this unearthly hour. yes—it's mary cass. you must come over here at once. it's millie. she's very ill. no, i don't know what the matter is, but you must come. yes, at once."

she went back to millie. she persuaded her to come into the sitting-room, to take off her hat. after that, she sat there on the little sofa without moving, staring in front of her.

half an hour later henry came in, rough, tumbled, dishevelled. at the sight of that familiar face, that untidy hair, those eager devoted eyes, a tremor ran through millie's body.

he rushed across to her, flung his arms around her.

"millie darling . . . darling. . . . what is it? mill dearest, what's the matter?"

she clung to him; she shuddered from head to foot; then she cried: "oh, henry, don't leave me. don't leave me. never again. oh, henry, i'm so unhappy!"

[pg 278]

and at that the tears suddenly came, breaking out, releasing at once the agony and the pain and the fear, pouring them out against her brother's face, clinging to him, holding him, never never to let him go again. and he, seeing his proud, confident, beloved millie in desperate need of him held her close, murmuring old words of their childhood to her, stroking her hair, her face, her hands, looking at her with eyes of the deepest, tenderest love.