and all that had been difficult,
painful or obscure in the world seemed perfect with the inexhaustible
glory of young passion. Rennes begged her to see him once more before he
left England for some years. Would she meet him in Kensington Gardens?
She had often walked there, under the old trees, with himself and Mrs.
Rennes, and the place had become very dear, very familiar to her from
these associations. At any other time, however, the idea of a
clandestine meeting with David would have been intolerable. To go now
was misery, yet she dared not stay away. The sunny morning mixed with
her mood, which was one of determination to risk all in order to win
all. Driven by a sense of her capabilities for endurance, she faced,
with a kind of exultation, the possible disaster or remorse which might
follow her action. Was there not a possible joy also? For ten days now
she had been ill in body as well as mind; she had suffered a hard
struggle. She knew now that she could not, could not, could not, no
matter what happened, become the wife of Lord Reckage. The result of
great self-delusion for so long a period was a condition of mind in
which she was practically unable to distinguish between candour and
disingenuousness. Any appearance of deceit--which she regarded as wrong
in itself--always excited her scorn, but desperation now urged a step
which might lead, she thought, to much good or much evil. That it could
lead to more evil than a loveless marriage was not, however, to be
feared. She started from the house with feverish cheeks, a beating
pulse, and a new strange consciousness of power--power over herself, her
fate, the world.

Rennes was waiting for her under the long avenue of trees by the
Lancaster Gate walk. She had a tall, stately figure of that type
immortalised by Du Maurier--indeed, she herself may be recognised in
some of his famous society sketches about the year 1870. The clear,
decisive features, the tender discerning expression, the poise of the
head, were irresistibly attractive to all artists with a strong sense of
grace--even artificial grace--as opposed to rude vigour or homeliness.
She possessed naturally that almost unreal elegance which many
painters--Frederick Walker, for instance--have been accused of
inventing.

"This is very wrong of me," she said, blushing as Rennes advanced, hat
in hand, to meet her, "very wrong. I never do these things."

"I said in my letter--right or wrong it matters not--what I