"Tell Caroline! Certainly not."

"Why not? To tell her would be truthful."

"It might be, but it would also be the utmost folly."

"What if she were to discover?"

"Then we should have to make her see reason."

"I am still frightened when I think of Caroline. Then I know that I am the same poor thing who has been deceived so many times ... by Leon, by Mr. Beddoes . . . and perhaps by you!"

"The view of the world would certainly be that I am deceiving you. But the world has a queer twisted way of describing things sometimes. I would never willingly deceive you in accordance with our understanding of the word deceive. We cannot tell Caroline. It would hurt her unnecessarily. There is no reason why she should know. Can we leave now?"

"Fermor, I'm afraid suddenly. It is Caroline who is making me afraid. She would know."

"She would not know."

"Wenna followed us that day. Caroline will know through her."

"I didn't see Wenna. You imagined it."

"Wenna is here in London with Caroline. You know that. What more natural than that she should follow us ? I can't come with you to-night."

"You shall come. You have promised."

"I will not come. I cannot come to-night. I must think of Caroline to-night."

"You said we had done with all pretence."

"This is no pretence. To-night I am intoxicated."

"You have drunk nothing."

"With freedom," she said. "I must not come while I am in this state."

"So," he said, "you do not mean what you say?"

"I think I mean it. I will not stay in this house after to-night. I am going to be free, and my first free act will be to come to you. I will come to-morrow, I promise; but not to-night."

"Why not? Why not?"

"Perhaps I know I should not. People are looking our way. Madam Cardingly and the girls . . . and some of the men . . . are watching us. Let us seem natural. I want no one to guess that I am running away to-morrow.'*

"How I love you!" he said. "Now I shall show you how much."

"Love is the best thing in the world. I know it."

"To-morrow you may change your mind. You must leave this place to-night."

"No. But I will come to-morrow. I swear."

"I will meet you here at two-thirty. That is the time when you take a walk. Slip away before the others. I will be waiting in the square. I will have a place ready for you. Afterwards you can choose what you want. Oh, Melisande ... at last!"

"At last!" she repeated.

"Swear to me now that you'll not change your mind."

"I will meet you in the square to-morrow without fail. I swear."

"How long time takes to pass! It is not yet ten o'clock. Fifteen hours must pass before my dreams are realized! It is tormenting to be near you and not to be alone with you."

"You alarm me sometimes," she said. "You always have. I feel like a child watching a fire . . . longing to touch . . . knowing she'll be burned, because she has been warned, and yet not knowing what the burning will be like."

"You'll not be hurt," he said. "To some are given the gift of meeting one woman . . . one man ... in a lifetime, and that is the one . . . the only one. You are that one for me. If I had known it when we first met we would not have missed so much."

"There was always Caroline though, wasn't there? She was there before we met. We should have brought unhappiness to her."

"She would have married someone else."

"I cannot forget her. Sometimes I think I never shall as long as we live."

"You must not think of her. I must not think of her. Think of ourselves and all the happiness we shall have. Should we miss that for the sake of one person who cannot know such happiness in any case?"

"She could if you loved her."

"How could I love anyone but you?"

"Perhaps love grows sated. How do I know? What do I know yet? I am beginning to know. Perhaps I am being wrong. Perhaps I am going to suffer. There was a nun, long ago in the Convent, who loved. I think of her. I always did as a child. She took her vows and had a lover. She suffered terribly. Perhaps I too shall suffer . . . even as she did. They walled her up and left her to die in a granite tomb."

"What a morbid thought! Someone ought to have walled up her judges instead of her."

"We have to see everything through others' eyes as well as our own. They thought they were right. She knew she would be punished. Perhaps she willingly accepted punishment. I should want to do that if I had done something which deserved punishment. I should wish to take it in resignation as the nun did. That is why I must think of Caroline to-night."

"If you attempt to draw back to-morrow," he said, "I shall come and take you by force."

"That would be so easy for me, wouldn't it? None could blame me then. All the burden of sin would be yours."

"Sin! What is sin ? Sin, in the eyes of most people is doing what they don't approve of. Darling, have done with talk. You have promised . . . to-morrow."

"I will be there to-morrow."

"And you'll not draw back?"

"What would be the use? You have sworn to force me to do as you wish."

He touched her hand lightly, for others, sent by Fenella, were joining them.

They talked; she was very gay; she seemed intoxicated. Many were enchanted with Melisande that night, and six women decided that they must have an ivory velvet gown; it gave such a glow to the skin, such a shine to the eyes.

And the long evening passed.

She was demure next morning, quiet and brooding. Genevra and Clotilde watched her anxiously, but she betrayed nothing.

Fenella sent a message to say that she wished to have a chat with Melisande when the girls returned from their afternoon walk. Fenella would never have that chat, for Melisande by then would have left the house for ever.

She feigned sleepiness while they drank their morning chocolate. "Poor darling!" said Genevra. "Last night wore you out. Never mind, ducky. Got to resign ourselves to what's what, you know."

"Yes," said Melisande, "we have to resign ourselves."

"And have you given dear Beddoes the go-by, or have you decided to take what's offered you?"

"I shall never marry Mr. Beddoes."

Clotilde smiled sagely. "I wish you all the best of luck, my dear," she said.

And they did not worry her after that. She read with them during that long morning and, when they were preparing themselves for a walk in the Park, she slipped downstairs and out of the house.

Clotilde saw her go. She stood at the door watching her meeting with Fermor; and Clotilde smiled knowingly and went back to wait for Genevra and Polly.

Neither Fermor nor Melisande spoke much during that short walk to the furnished house which he had found for her.

She was walking away from one existence to another. This was what she wanted—to be with him, not to banter and quarrel as they had always done before, but to exult in being together. It was true that a shadowy third person walked beside them. Melisande could never forget Caroline . . . Caroline in her black mourning dress, with her fair ringlets over her shoulders; there was an intensity about Caroline, something which suggested a capacity for deep feeling— for love, for suffering, for tragedy.