plunging headlong into that searing blackness.

And now Royal Blondin was back again, and she was not ready for
him. She could not score now. But he could hurt her irreparably if
he would. Isabelle was an indifferent mother, and an incorrigible
flirt, but at the first word, at the first hint--ah, there would
be no arguing, no weighing of the old blame and responsibility! If
there was the faintest cloud of doubt, that would be enough!
Better the driest and fussiest old Frenchwoman for Nina, the
dullest and least responsive of Englishwomen. But by all means
settle accounts at once with Miss Field, and pay her railway fare,
and wish her well.

Harriet had shaken back her mane of hair, had hammered furious
fists together up on the dark balcony. It wasn't fair--it wasn't
fair--just now, when she was so secure and happy! She had flung
her arms across the railing, and buried her hot face on them, and
had wept desperate and angry tears into the silken and golden
tangle that shone dully in the starlight.

The stars were paling, and the garden stirred with the first
languid breath of the hot day to come, when she suddenly rose and
bound up the loosened hair, and went in. Harriet was not yet
twenty-seven, and every fibre of her being cried out for sleep.
Cold water on the tear-stained face, and the childish prayer she
never forgot, and she had crept gratefully into the soft covers,
and had had perhaps four hours of such rest as only comes to
youth.

So that the morning brought courage. Her heart was heavy and