rne,
because if she had ceased to speak she must have screamed. Even as it
was, the fact that her husband said nothing whatever was driving her
almost to distraction.

Suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her to stop, that her words
were making no impression, that he was not so much as listening to them,
his attention being focussed upon her and her alone.

She broke off in desperation. She met his steady eyes. "Don't you--don't
you believe me, Trevor?"

He did not instantly reply. For one dreadful moment she thought that he
was going to answer in the negative. And then very deliberately he
declined her direct challenge.

"I think," he said quietly, "that you don't know what you are saying."

And with that he went slowly back to his own room, taking the jewel-case
with him. The door closed softly and she was left alone.

For many seconds thereafter Chris made no movement of any sort. It was as
if she were afraid to stir. Her eyes were wide, gazing straight before
her, as though fascinated by some scene of terror.

She moved at last stiffly, went to the window, drew a long, deep breath.
She asked herself no questions of any sort. There was no need. For the
first time in her life she was face to face with her own soul, beyond all
possibility of self-deception.

The child Chris was gone for ever, the woman Chris remained, a woman with
a tragic secret that must never be revealed. She knew now why she had
fought so desperately to keep that episode of Valpre from her husband's
knowledge. She only marvelled that the reason had never come home to her
before. She knew now why she had always shrunk inwardly from the
searching of his eyes. She had always dreaded that he might see too much,
even that same secret of which she herself must have been vaguely
conscious for years.

It was all clear to her now, so clear that she could never shut her eyes
to it again. All her life long she must carry it in her heart, and no one
must ever know. Sleeping and waking, she must keep it safely hidden. She
must go on living a lie all her life, all her life.

She flung out her arms with a sudden gesture of fierce rebellion. Oh, why
had she married? Why? Why? Why? Had she not always known in her heart
that she was making a terrible, an irrevocable, mistake? How was it she
had been so blind? Why had there been no one to warn her of the snare
into which she was walking? Why had no hand held her back?

Trevor himself--but no, Tr