hate. At
last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old
self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that
she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned,
the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. "And now--now,"
she said, "I know that I cannot live without you."

It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the
merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known.

"You asked me of the other man," she said. "I will tell you."

"Not now," he said. "You loved him?"

"No--ah God, no!" she answered.

An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of
correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from
Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected
to meet him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not
written; Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience.
His letters had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying
that his plans were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon.
After he came to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he?
No, let the American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the
worst light, with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself
an insult. So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next
were from his grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He
could not read them. A few loving sentences, and then he said:

"What's the good! Better not." He tore them up also. Another--from his
uncle. It was brief:

You've made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It's in all the papers
to-day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I'll
probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the
site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can
pose with you. I'll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a
British M.P.--that's a tough pill for Clapham!

Gaston's foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the
letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal,
Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it
was there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation.
Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all
unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand:

There was a previous friend of the lady, unk