answer of her young blood to despair. Why should she die, never
having known what it was to live? Why should she prostrate herself
before this juggernaut of other people's respectability? Joy
called to her; only her own cowardice stayed her from stretching
forth her hand and gathering it. She returned home a different
woman, for hope had come to her.

A week later the butler entered the dining room, and handed Blake a
letter addressed to him in his wife's handwriting. He took it
without a word, as though he had been expecting it. It simply told
him that she had left him for ever.


The world is small, and money commands many services. Sennett had
gone out for a stroll; Edith was left in the tiny salon of their
appartement at Fecamp. It was the third day of their arrival in
the town. The door was opened and closed, and Blake stood before
her.

She rose frightened, but by a motion he reassured her. There was a
quiet dignity about the man that was strange to her.

"Why have you followed me?" she asked.

"I want you to return home."

"Home!" she cried. "You must be mad. Do you not know--"

He interrupted her vehemently. "I know nothing. I wish to know
nothing. Go back to London at once. I have made everything right;