_that_," was his answer, as he read
her face. "But I shall say not a word against it. I could respect you,
at all events."

"Yes, and I had rather have your respect than your love."

With that, she left him. He wished to pursue, but a physical languor
held him motionless. And when at length he sauntered from the place, it
was with a sense of satisfaction at what had happened. Let her carry
out that purpose: he faced it, preferred it. Let her be lost to him in
that way rather than any other. It cut the knot, and left him with a
memory of Eve that would not efface her dishonouring weakness.

Late at night, he walked about the streets near his home, debating with
himself whether she would act as she spoke, or had only sought to
frighten him with a threat. And still he hoped that her resolve was
sincere. He could bear that conclusion of their story better than any
other--unless it were her death. Better a thousand times than her
marriage with Narramore.

In the morning, fatigue gave voice to conscience. He had bidden her go,
when, perchance, a word would have checked her. Should he write, or
even go to her straightway and retract what he had said? His will
prevailed, and he did nothing.

The night that followed plagued him with other misgivings. It seemed
more probable now that she had threatened what she would never have the
courage to perform. She meant it at the moment--it declared a truth but
an hour after she would listen to commonplace morality or prudence.
Narramore would write to her; she might, perhaps, see him again. She
would cling to the baser hope.

Might but the morrow bring him a letter from London!

It brought nothing; and day after day disappointed him. More than a
week passed: he was ill with suspense, but could take no step for
setting his mind at rest. Then, as he sat one morning at his work in
the architect's office, there arrived a telegram addressed to him--

"I must see you as soon as possible. Be here before six.--Narramore."

CHAPTER XXVI

"What the devil does this mean, Hilliard?"

If never before, the indolent man was now thoroughly aroused. He had an
open letter in his hand. Hilliard, standing before him in a little
office that smelt of ledgers and gum, and many other commercial things,
knew that the letter must be from Eve, and savagely hoped that it was
dated London.

"This is from Miss Madeley, and it's all about you. Why couldn't you
speak the other day?"

"What does