olutely nothing
to fear, if she handled the thing in a bold, common-sense way, and told a
consistent and clever lie.

And yet, she had weakly made appointments with both her tormentors!--made
it plain to them that she was afraid! She called herself a coward, and a
fool--and then as she leant her head against the side of her bed, the
tears ran down her face, and her heart cried out for Ellesborough.

"How _can_ I go on lying to him--now--and all my life?" It was the same
cry as before, but more intense, more passionate with every day's living.
The need for lying had now doubled; yet her will could less and less
steel itself to it, because of sheer love and remorse towards the man who
loved her.

"He would forgive me. I know he would--I know he would!" she kept on
murmuring to herself, while her eyes rained in the semi-darkness.

Yes, but it would change everything! Their love--his feeling towards
her--could never be the same again. After Roger Delane--Dick Tanner. Why
not another--and another? Would he not always be watching her, dreading
some new discovery! Suspecting her, even while he loved her?

No. She must choke off Delane--with money--the only way. And invent some
story--some bribe, too--for that odious young man who had caught her
unawares.

So again she hardened herself, despairingly. It could not be allowed
her--the balm and luxury of confession! It was too dangerous. Her all
was in it.

Meanwhile, the singing continued below. Janet had struck up "Tipperary,"
and the small flute-like voices of the girls, supported by her harsher
one, mounted joyously through every crevice of the slightly-built house.

"It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
And my heart's right there."

The beautiful tune, interwoven for our generation with all that is most
poignant in its life, beat on Rachel's nerves. It was being sung all over
England that Armistice Day, as it had been sung in the first days of the
war, joyously, exultingly, yet with catching breath. There was in it more
than thousands of men and women dared to probe, whether of joy or sorrow.
They sang it, with a sob in the throat. To Rachel, also, sunk in her own
terrors, it was almost unbearable. The pure unspoilt passion of it--the
careless, confident joy--seemed to make an outcast of her, as she sat
there in the dark, dragged back by the shock and horror of Delane's
appearance into the slime and slough of old memories, and struggling with
them in vain. Yes, she