ed slightly, as if she had really
received a blow. She had just been praying for something earnestly,
almost violently, and she had prayed with clear understanding, with the
understanding that a long and fully lived life brings to every really
intelligent human being. Did she really want her prayer to be answered,
or had she been trying to humbug herself? She had thought of a test
which would surely prove whether she was genuine in her desire to escape
from the torment that was lying in wait for her or not. Instead of
receiving a visit from her Greek to-morrow, instead of being at home to
Craven in the late afternoon, instead of giving herself up to the lure
which must, she knew, certainly lead her on to emotional destruction,
she might do this: she might telephone to Sir Seymour Portman to come to
her and tell him that she would reward his long faithfulness.

It would be a way out. If she could bring herself to do it she would
make herself safe. For though Seymour Portman had been so faithful, and
she had never rewarded him, he was not a man any woman would dare to
play with. Lady Sellingworth knew that she would never break a promise
to him, would never play fast and loose with him. He was strong and
he was true, and he had very high ideals and an almost stern code of
honour. In accepting him as her husband she would shut a door of steel
between herself and her past, with its sins and its many follies. She
would begin again, as an old woman with a devoted husband who would
know--none better--how to make himself respected, how to hold by his
rights.

People might smile at such a marriage, but it would be absolutely
suitable. Seymour was a few years older than she was. But he was still
strong and upright, could still sit a horse as well as any man, still
had a steady hand with his gun. He was not a ruin. She would be able
to rest on him. A more perfect support for a woman than Seymour, if
he loved, was surely not created. He was a gentleman to the core, and
totally incapable of insincerity. He was fearless. He belonged to her
world. He was _persona grata_ at Court and in society. And he loved her
in that extraordinary and very rare way--as the one woman. All he needed
in a woman quite evidently he found in her. How? Why? She did not know,
could not understand. But so it was. She would absolutely satisfy his
desires.

The aspirin was stilling her nerves. She lay without moving. Had she
been a humbug when she prayed? H