She flung herself down upon her bed and lay there trembling like a
terrified creature caught in a trap. Her brain was a whirl of bewildering
emotions. She knew not which way to turn to escape the turmoil, or even
if she were glad or sorry for the step she had taken. She wondered if
Hill would tell Jack and Adela the moment her back was turned, and
dreaded to hear the sound of her sister-in-law's footsteps outside her
door.

But no one came, and after a time she grew calmer. After all, though in
the end she had made her decision somewhat suddenly, it had not been an
unconsidered one. Though she could not pretend to love Fletcher Hill, she
had a sincere respect for him. He was solid, and she knew that her future
would be safe in his hands. The past was past, and every day took her
farther from it. Yet very deep down in her soul there still lurked the
memory of that past. In the daytime she could put it from her, stifle
it, crowd it out with a multitude of tasks; but at night in her dreams
that memory would not always be denied. In her dreams the old vision
returned--tender, mocking, elusive--a sunburnt face with eyes of vivid
blue that looked into hers, smiling and confident with that confidence
that is only possible between spirits that are akin. She would feel again
the pressure of a man's lips on the hollow of her arm--that spot which
still bore the tiny mark which once had been a snake-bite. He had come to
her in her hour of need, and though he was a fugitive from justice, she
would never forget his goodness, his readiness to serve her, his
chivalry. And while in her waking hours she chid herself for her
sentimentality, yet even so, she had not been able to force herself to
cast her brief romance away.

Ah, well, she had done it now. The way was closed behind her. There could
be no return. It was all so long ago. She had been little more than a
child then, and now she was growing old. The time had come to face the
realities of life, to put away the dreams. She believed that Fletcher
Hill was a good man, and he had been very patient. She quivered a little
at the thought of that patience of his. There was a cast-iron quality
about it, a forcefulness, that made her wonder. Had she ever really met
the man who dwelt within that coat of mail? Could there be some terrible
revelation in store for her? Would she some day find that she had given
herself to a being utterly alien to her in thought and impulse? He had
shown h