rity and to power; they broke up
her life as she had planned it. There would arise an inevitable
conflict. In victory for herself--even in that--she saw misery. But she
could not believe in victory. She was afraid.

Then she must let him go. She had the conviction clear at last; her
delicate equipoise--the ignorance of Fillingford against Octon's
suspicious but hopeful doubt--her having it both ways, could not be
maintained forever. Sentence was passed on Octon. I think that in his
heart he must have known it. But her fascination pleaded with her for a
long day--that the sentence should not be executed yet. To determine to
do it was one thing; doing it was quite another. Day by day she must
have debated "Shall it be to-morrow?" Day after day she delayed and
dallied. Day after day she saw him; whether they met at Ivydene with
Powers for sentinel, or whether she seized her chance to slip across
from Ivydene to Hatcham Ford, I know not. However that may be--and it
matters little--every afternoon she went down to Ivydene--to transact
Institute business--between tea and dinner. Late for business? Yes--but
Fillingford came earlier in the afternoons--and now it grew dark early.
A carriage or a car took her--but she never kept it waiting. She always
came home on foot in the gathering darkness.

After her one explicit confidence, "The signal's at Danger," she became
unapproachable on the subject which filled alike her thoughts and mine.
Hence a certain distance came between us in spite of her affectionate
kindness. There were no more morning rides; she went only once or twice
herself; I did not know whether she met Lacey. I was less often at lunch
and dinner. We confined ourselves more to our official relations. We
were both awkwardly conscious of a forbidden or suppressed subject--one
that could not be approached to any good purpose unless confidence was
to be open and thorough. To that length she would not--perhaps could
not--go; she had to fight her battle alone. Only once she came near to
referring to the position of affairs, then no more than indirectly.

"You looked rather fagged and worried," she said one day. "Why don't you
take a little holiday, and come back when things are settled?"

"Would you rather I went away for a bit? I want you to tell me the
truth."

"Oh, no," she answered with evident sincerity, almost with eagerness. "I
like to have you here." She smiled. "Somebody to catch me if I fall!"
Then, with a q