She sank into a chair and fell forward across the table, sobbing
hysterically.

"I hate every one!" she moaned. "Philip, why can't you be kind to me!
Why doesn't some one care!"



CHAPTER XVII

And, after all, nothing happened. Dane's barely veiled threats seemed to
vanish like the man himself into thin air. Beatrice, after the breakdown
of her one passionate outburst, had become wonderfully meek and
tractable. Sylvanus Power, who had received from Elizabeth the message
for which he had waited, showed no sign either of disappointment or
anger. After the storm which had seemed to be breaking in upon him from
every quarter, the days which followed possessed for Philip almost the
calm of an Indian summer. He had found something in life at last stronger
than his turbulent fears. His whole nature was engrossed by one great
atmosphere of deep and wonderful affection. He spent a part of every day
with Elizabeth, and the remainder of his time was completely engrossed by
the work over which she, too, the presiding genius, pored eagerly.
Together they humoured many of Beatrice's whims, treating her very much
as an unexpected protegée, a position with which she seemed entirely
content. She made friends with the utmost facility. She wore new clothes
with frank and obvious joy. She preened herself before the looking-glass
of life, developed a capacity for living and enjoying herself which,
under the circumstances, was nothing less than remarkable.

And then came the climax of Philip's new-found happiness. His earnest