ad she prayed knowing quite well that
her prayer was not going to be answered, not intending, or wishing,
really, that it should be answered? Had she prayed without any belief
in a Being who had the power and probably the will to give her what she
asked for? Would she have prayed at all had she been sure that if she
offered up a petition to be made old in nature as well as in body it
would certainly be granted?

"I don't know! I don't know!" she whispered to herself.

The darkness of the big room suddenly seemed very strange. And she
thought how odd it was that human beings need in every twenty-four hours
a long period of blackness, that they make blackness by turning out
light, and stretch themselves out in it as if getting ready for burial.

"Burial! If I'm not a humbug, if really I wish for peace, to-morrow I
shall send for Seymour," she said to herself. "Through him I can get
peace of mind. He will protect me against myself, without even knowing
that he is doing it. I have only to speak a sentence to him and all
possibility of danger, torment and wildness will be over for ever."

And then she thought of the safety of a prison. But anything was surely
better than misery of mind and body, than wanting terribly from someone
what he never wants to give you, what he never wants from you.

Torment in freedom, or stagnant peace in captivity behind the prison
door--which was the more desirable? Craven's voice through
the telephone--their conversation about Waring--Seymour's long
faithfulness--if he were here now! How would it be? And if Craven--No!
No!

Another tablet of aspirin--and sleep!

Lady Sellingworth did not pray the next morning. But she telephoned
to Seymour Portman, and said she would be at home about five in the
afternoon if he cared for an hour's talk. She gave no hint that she had
any special reason for asking him to come. If he only knew what was in
her mind! His firm, quiet, soldier's voice replied through the telephone
that of course he would come. Somehow she guessed that he had had an
engagement and was going to give it up for her. What would he not give
up for her? And yet he was a man accustomed to command, and to whom
authority was natural. But he was also accustomed to obey. He was the
perfect courtier, devoted to the monarchy, yet absolutely free from the
slave instinct. Good kings trust such men. Many women love them.

"Why not I?" Lady Sellingworth thought that day.

And it seemed to her