soft hand on Anstice's arm and spoke one last
gentle word.

"Dr. Anstice, I believe you--and good-bye! But--oh, do, do remember--for
my sake let me ask you to remember that this is _not_ the true way out!"

And then, as Cheniston took her arm impatiently to lead her away, she
smiled through the tears which threatened to blind her, and went out
from his presence without one reproachful word.

* * * * *

When she had gone he stood gazing after her for a long moment, and the
look in his face would have broken the heart of a woman who had loved
him. Then, with a despairing feeling that now nothing mattered in all
the world, he sank down again on the couch and let the flood overwhelm
him as it would.

CHAPTER XIII

As the clocks were striking ten on the following morning, the morning of
Iris Wayne's wedding day, Anstice came slowly down the garden to where
his car waited by the gate.

It was a glorious September morning, the whole world bathed in a flood
of golden sunshine, and the soft, warm air was heavy with the scent of
sweet-peas, of stocks, of the hundred and one fragrant flowers which
deck the late summer days. Away over the fields hung an enchanting blue
haze which promised yet greater heat when it too should have dissolved
before the mellow rays of the sun; and if there be any truth in the old
saw that happy is the portion of the bride on whom the sun shall shine,
then truly the lot of Iris Wayne should be a happy one.

But in Anstice's face there was no reflected sunshine on this auspicious
morning. Rather did he look incredibly haggard and worn, and his
colourless lips and purple-shadowed eyes were in strangest contrast to
the smiling face of Nature.

It was only by a very strong effort of will that Anstice had driven
himself forth to embark upon his day's work. The horrible night through
which he had passed had left traces on both body and soul; and the
thought of that which was to happen to-day, the thought of the ceremony
in the little flower-decked church by which the girl he adored would be
given as wife to another man was nothing short of torture to this man
who loved her.

He would have given half he possessed to be able to blot out this day
from his calendar--to pass the whole of it in a state of oblivion, of
forgetfulness, to cheat life of its fiercest suffering for a few hours
at least; but Iris herself blocked the way to that last indulgence. She
had