clear insight. And she
knew that Caroline was really fond of her.

But Fate had removed her friend from her. And was it not because of that
removal that she had lost her battle? The sense of loneliness, of a
cold finality, had been too great for her. She had had too much time
for remembrance. And she had remembered certain hours with Craven by
the fire, had remembered the human warmth of them, till the longing for
happiness had overpowered everything else in her. They had been very
happy together. She had been able to make him happy. His eager eyes had
shown it. And their joy had been quite innocent; there had been no
harm in it at all. Why should she deliberately forego such innocent
contentment? Walking alone on the sea front at Cannes in the warm and
brilliant weather she had asked herself that question. If Craven were
there! And in the long loneliness she had begun presently, as often
before, to try to cheat herself. The drastic heart of London had seemed
to change into another heart. And at last she had followed the example
of a woman in Paris some ten years ago.

She had as it were got out of the train once more.

She had not, perhaps, been fully conscious of the terrible repetition
brought about by a temperament which apparently refused to change.
She had no doubt tried to deceive herself though she had not deceived
herself ten years ago at the Gare du Nord. She had even lied to herself,
saying that in London she had given way to a foolish and morbid mood of
fear, induced in her by memories of disasters in the past, that she had
imagined danger where no danger existed. In London panic had seized her.
But now in a different atmosphere and environment, quite alone and able,
therefore, to consider things carefully and quietly, to see them in
their true light, she had told herself that it was preposterous to
give up an innocent joy merely because long ago she had been subject to
folly. Ten years had elapsed since her last fit of folly. She must have
changed since then. It was inevitable that she had changed. She had
lied to herself in London when she had told herself that Craven would be
satisfied in their friendship, while she would be almost starving. Her
subsequent prayer had been answered. Passion was dead in her. A tender,
almost a motherly feeling--that really was what she felt and would
always feel for Alick Craven. She need not fear such a feeling. She
would not fear it. Morbidity had possessed her. The su