re clearly.

It seemed, at that moment, as if cutting one's throat would be the only
way out of the growing difficulty.

How _could_ it go on? And yet, how could she give him up? (The imp gave
a fiendish chuckle.) It would be so unfair, so cruel, and what would
life be without him? ("Moral development impossible!" cried the imp,
with a yell of laughter.) It would be so mean to go back
now--("Shocking!" exclaimed the imp.) Assuming that she ought never to
have allowed this thing to happen ("Oh, fie!") because she bore another
man's name (not being permitted to retain her own), ought she to throw
this man over, on second and (per assumption) better thoughts, or did
the false step oblige her to continue in the path she had entered?

"I seem to have got myself into one of those situations where there is
_no_ right," she exclaimed.

"You forget your own words: A woman in relation to society is in the
position of a captive; she may justly evade the prison rules, if she
can."

"So she may; only I want so desperately to wrench away the bars instead
of evading the rules."

"Try to remember that you----" The Professor stopped abruptly and stood
listening. They looked at one another. Hadria was deadly white. A step
was advancing along the winding path through the bushes behind them: a
half overgrown path, that led from a small door in the wall that ran
round the park. It was the nearest route from the station to the house,
and a short cut could be taken this way through the garden, to Craddock
Place.

"It's all right," the Professor said in a low voice; "we were saying
nothing compromising."

The step drew nearer.

"Some visitor to Craddock Place probably, who has come down by the 4.20
from town."

"Professor Fortescue!"

Hadria had sprung up, and was standing, with flushed cheeks, beside her
calmer companion.

Professor Fortescue's voice broke the momentary silence. He gave a warm
smile of pleasure and came forward with out-stretched hand.

"The hoped-for instant has come sooner than I thought," he cried
genially.

Hadria was shocked to see him looking very ill. He said that his doctor
had bullied him, at last, into deciding to go south. His arrangements
for departure had been rather hastily made, and he had telegraphed this
morning, to Craddock Place, to announce his coming. His luggage was
following in a hand-cart, and he was taking the short cut through the
Priory gardens. He had come to say good-bye to the