You must not come to me again until I send for you. I cannot, I
will not trust myself or you. I will keep this love which has come
to me undefiled. It has brought with it to me a new spirit, a
spirit with a scorn for things base and mean. Though it were my
last chance in life, I would not see you if you came. If I thought
you would not understand what I feel, I could not love you as I do.

"I will write to you again, when I see my way more clearly. I told
you in the garden before you spoke that I was going away. Do not
seek to know my plans. For the sake of the years to come, obey me.

"HONORA."

She reread the letter, and sealed it. A new and different exaltation had
come to her--begotten, perhaps, in the act of writing. A new courage
filled her, and now she contemplated the ordeal with a tranquillity that
surprised her. The disorder and chaos of the night were passed, and she
welcomed the coming day, and those that were to follow it. As though the
fates were inclined to humour her impatience, there was a telegram on her
breakfast tray, dated at New York, and informing her that her husband
would be in Newport about the middle of the afternoon. His western trip
was finished a day earlier than he expected. Honora rang her bell.

"Mathilde, I am going away."

"Oui, madame."

"And I should like you to go with me."

"Oui, madame."