put on a wrapper and sat down to brush the train-smoke out of
her hair.

For months after leaving Fiorsen, she had felt nothing but relief. Only
of late had she begun to see her new position, as it was--that of a woman
married yet not married, whose awakened senses have never been gratified,
whose spirit is still waiting for unfoldment in love, who, however
disillusioned, is--even if in secret from herself--more and more surely
seeking a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and beauty.
To-night--gazing at her face, reflected, intent and mournful, in the
mirror--she saw that position more clearly, in all its aridity, than she
had ever seen it. What was the use of being pretty? No longer use to
anyone! Not yet twenty-six, and in a nunnery! With a shiver, but not of
cold, she drew her wrapper close. This time last year she had at least
been in the main current of life, not a mere derelict. And yet--better
far be like this than go back to him whom memory painted always standing
over her sleeping baby, with his arms stretched out and his fingers
crooked like claws.

After that early-morning escape, Fiorsen had lurked after her for weeks,
in town, at Mildenham, followed them even to Scotland, where Winton had
carried her off. But she had not weakened in her resolution a second
time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit, and gone abroad. Since
then--nothing had come from him, save a few wild or maudlin letters,
written evidently during drinking-bouts. Even they had ceased, and for
four months she had heard no word. He had "got over" her, it seemed,
wherever he was--Russia, Sweden--who knew--who cared?

She let the brush rest on her knee, thinking again of that walk with her
baby through empty, silent streets, in the early misty morning last
October, of waiting dead-tired outside here, on the pavement, ringing
till they let her in. Often, since, she had wondered how fear could have
worked her up to that weird departure. She only knew that it had not been
unnatural at the time. Her father and Aunt Rosamund had wanted her to
try for a divorce, and no doubt they had been right. But her instincts
had refused, still refused to let everyone know her secrets and
sufferings--still refused the hollow pretence involved, that she had
loved him when she never had. No, it had been her fault for marrying him
without love--

"Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds!"

What irony--giving h