thy. There had been occasions when he had
definitely decided that he disliked the girl, yet the decision had no
mitigating effect on his desire to see her again at the earliest
possible moment. But he was certain, looking back over the time from
the first meeting on the golf links, to that last evening in the
palm-shaded retreat at the ball, he was definitely, absolutely, certain
that the idea of marriage had never entered his head.

How, then, had he become engaged? How had it happened that he left that
ball pledged to live side by side with this strange, silent girl, till
death did them part? Honestly, Hereward did not know. There had been a
flirtation, of course, if such a demure, well-conducted affair could be
called a flirtation. The girl had looked unusually feminine and
attractive in the dim light, and, this was the crux!--_she had seemed to
expect it_. Some power of expectancy had driven him on until he had
spoken the fateful words, for in these days of languor and depression,
Lowther had lost the power of resistance, and the easiest course seemed
invariably the best. He was conscious of his own demoralisation, but
the misery of the consciousness had no vivifying effect; it rather drove
him back to his drugs. So in this instance he had drifted on, and in a
moment's weakness had sacrificed his freedom.

Yes! that was what it came to; that was the disgraceful fact. He had
married this girl because she had desired it, and he was too lazy to
resist. Lowther acknowledged the fact with a shrug, but immediately
afterwards arose a second problem, hardly less incomprehensible than the
first.

_Why had Lilith married him_?

She did not love him. The man had soon recognised that fact, and it had
brought an unexpected stab of pain. If she had loved him, as some women
can love, she might have--helped! But she was cold as ice. Even his
own lukewarm endearments had proved unacceptable; there was evidently no
personal attraction to explain the mystery of her marriage with a man
who was an historic failure.

They had been married a week, and were sitting in the garden of a
foreign hotel, discussing a possible excursion, when Lilith startled her
husband by a sudden question. Her voice, as she spoke, was low and
unperturbed; her face showed a gentle smile, nevertheless that question
smote upon Lowther's ears like the crack of a whip.

"At what time," asked Lilith calmly, "do you next take your morphia?"

He