sickening, shivering heaviness. She thought she would have to
cry out because of the slow fire which seemed to scorch her dry and
aching eyes. Robert would never really need her, never really care about
her. This new trouble would take him farther away than ever. He would
burn all his ships, and any poor little tenderness he might have had in
the past for her, with them. Some great revulsion would take place in
his character; he would perhaps grow silent, reserved, enigmatic, his
face would show to the world the terrible, false, unknowable peace which
is the veil of the dead. It was useless to smooth her difficulties which
existed. It was foolish and wrong to encourage herself in unreal ideas
about him. It was best always to be straightforward and admit the
truth--no matter how bitter. And yet he had been kind and helpful to her
in a way in which scarce any one else could have been. She clung to the
belief that she would be able to do something to make his hour of trial
less severe. The hope which insinuates itself into every unrequited love
still lingered. He could at least always talk to her about Brigit: that
common memory would be a constant link between them. She had earned his
esteem, and perhaps with his esteem an affection deeper than he himself
realised. Under the pressure of a sudden and tragical necessity, he
would turn to her with the certainty that she would not fail him. She
was modest enough about her own powers. A remark she had once heard
Reckage pass, to the effect that religious women of devoted lives were
unhappily conspicuous, as a rule, for feebleness of mind and strength of
prejudice, haunted her as a kind of doom from which there was no appeal.
She knew, too, the verdict usually passed on those of either sex who
have the courage to maintain an unselfish attitude whether toward God or
some fellow-creature. But here she comforted herself by deciding that
her utter isolation in this universe rested on the fact that she did not
much deserve to be loved by anybody. This granted--not without a
pang--she felt the signs of weariness in her heart, but none of
wavering. She resolved to be foolish in the eyes of the self-satisfied.

Lord Reckage meanwhile was pacing the deck. His conversation with Pensee
had cast a darkness over his spirit. He had made up his mind, weeks
before, that the marriage years of his life would be the best, the most
distinguished, and most useful. With the utmost pains he had chosen