dy but
_me_ can give it--or explain----"

"How can you explain? What will you say?"

"Just whatever comes into my head. Married women understand these sort
of things. I shall know what to say--at the time."

"So will he. And then----"

"There you go!" Tears threatened again and her voice shook. "You talk
about loving me and you don't trust me any more than Theo does. If I
mayn't do this my own way I won't take the money at all."

"Don't talk nonsense, child," Honor cried desperately, her own
self-control almost at an end. "You _must_ take it. And if you insist
on running risks with your eyes open, there's no more to be said
except make haste and get the wretched thing done with. Go at once, in
your jhampan--and _don't_ leave it. Ask for Miss Kresney; and--shop or
no shop--mind you get a proper receipt. Then come straight home and
tell Theo you will do what he wishes. He will have had time to think
things over and it will be all right. I know it will. Perhaps you
would like me to speak of it to him, if I get the chance?"

"Yes--yes. Do, please! You dear, wonderful Honor! I don't know how to
say thank you enough----"

But Honor disengaged herself something hurriedly. The ache of
rebellion at her heart made Evelyn's effusiveness unendurable.

"Don't thank me at all," she said. "I don't want your thanks. I
don't--deserve them. Take care of that envelope; it is worth more than
two hundred rupees to you--and to me. Now go!"

And taking her by the shoulders, she put her gently outside the door.
Then, drawing a deep breath of relief, stood alone with the
realisation of all that had passed.

It seemed that she was not to be spared one drop of the cup of
bitterness; that to her had been assigned the task of Sisyphus, the
ceaseless rolling upward of a stone that as ceaselessly rolled down;
the continual re-establishment of Evelyn in the shrine of her
husband's heart. And there would be no end to it, even after John's
return. So long as these two had need of her, heart and brain and
hands would be at their service. She did not definitely think this,
because true heroism is unaware of itself. "It feels, and never
reasons; and therefore is always right."

Honor was aware of nothing just then, but the keen pang of
self-reproach. "God forgive me!" she murmured, forming the words with
her lips. "I did it for _him_."

Then she started, and the blood flew to her face. For Desmond's voice,
imperious, entreating, rang clear