no stamp to put on the
envelope; then, returning, she threw herself as she was on to the bed,
and before long passed into unconsciousness.

Waymark's absence that evening had been voluntary. His work had come to
a standstill; his waking hours were passed in a restless misery which
threatened to make him ill. And to-night he had not dared to go to Ida;
in his present state the visit could have but one result, and even yet
he hoped that such a result might not come about. He left home and
wandered about the streets till early morning. All manner of projects
occupied him. He all but made up his mind to write a long letter to Ida
and explain his position without reserve. But he feared lest the result
of that might be to make Ida hide away from him once more, and to this
loss he could not reconcile himself. Yet he was further than ever from
the thought of giving himself wholly to her, for the intenser his
feeling grew, the more clearly he recognised its character. This was
not love he suffered from, but mere desire. To let it have its way
would be to degrade Ida. Love might or might not follow, and how could
he place her at the mercy of such a chance as that? Her faith and trust
in him were absolute; could he take advantage of it for his own ends?
And, for all these fine arguments, Waymark saw with perfect clearness
how the matter would end. Self would triumph, and Ida, if the fates so
willed it, would be sacrificed. It was detestable, but a fact; as good
already as an accomplished fact.

And on the following morning Ida's note reached him. It was final. Her
entreaty that he would merely send money had no weight with him for a
moment; he felt that there was a contradiction between her words and
her wishes. This note explained the strangeness he had noticed in her
on their last evening together. He pitied her, and, as is so often the
case, pity was but fuel to passion. He swept from his mind all
obstinate debatings. Passion should be a law unto itself. Let the
future bring things about as it would.

He had risen late, and by the time he had finished a hasty breakfast it
was eleven o'clock. Half an hour after he went up the stairs of the
lodging-house and knocked at the familiar door.

But his knock met with no answer. Ida herself had left home an hour
before. Upon waking, and recalling what she had done, she foresaw that
Waymark would himself come, in spite of her request. She could not face
him. For all that her exhausti