him a final tender kiss. I did not even scribble a word of adieu or of
explanation. I stole away on tiptoe, without looking at him. This sounds
brutal, but it is a truth of my life, and I am writing my life--at
least, I am writing those brief hours of my existence during which I
lived. I had always a sort of fierce courage; and as I had proved the
courage of my passion in the night, so I proved the courage of my--not
my remorse, not my compunction, not my regret--but of my intellectual
honesty in the morning. Proud and vain words, perhaps. Who can tell? No
matter what sympathies I alienate, I am bound to say plainly that,
though I am passionate, I am not sentimental. I came to him out of the
void, and I went from him into the void. He found me, and he lost me.
Between the autumn sunset and the autumn sunrise he had learnt to know
me well, but he did not know my name nor my history; he had no clue, no
cord to pull me back.

I passed into the sitting-room, dimly lighted through the drawn curtains,
and there was the score of _Tristan_ open on the piano. Yes; and if I
were the ordinary woman I would add that there also were the ashes in the
cold grate, and so symbolize the bitterness of memory and bring about a
pang. But I have never regretted what is past. The cinders of that fire
were to me cinders of a fire and nothing more.

In the doorway I halted. To go into the corridor was like braving the
blast of the world, and I hesitated. Possibly I hesitated for a very
little thing. Only the women among you will guess it. My dress was dark
and severe. I had a simple, dark cloak. But I had no hat. I had no hat,
and the most important fact in the universe for me then was that I had no
hat. My whole life was changed; my heart and mind were in the throes of a
revolution. I dared not imagine what would happen between my aunt and me;
but this deficiency in my attire distressed me more than all else. At the