ible to say what I mean--I--I am horribly stupid to-night."

She moved forward and he opened the door, and held it open for her. She
went out with only a brief "Good-night," because no more words would
come. She had said all she was able to say, and now she walked along
trying to get her breath again. In the corridor she came upon Louise,
who seemed to have sprung suddenly from nowhere.

"Can I assist Madame?" said Louise, her face full of unrestrained
curiosity. "Can I brush Madame's hair?"

May made one or two more steps without finding her voice, then she
said--

"No, thank you, Louise." And feeling more than seeing the Frenchwoman's
ardent stare of interrogation, she added: "Louise, you may bring back my
travelling things, please, the first thing to-morrow morning. I shall
want them."

Louise was silent for a moment, just as a child is voiceless for a
moment before it bursts into shrieks. She followed May to her door.

"I shall pack everything for Madame," she exclaimed, and her voice
twanged like steel. She followed May into her bedroom. "I shall pack
everything when Madame goes truly." Here she glanced round the room, and
her large dark eyes rested with wild indignation on the little stained
figure of St. Joseph standing on the table by the bed.

The small pathetic saint stood all unconscious, its machine-made face
looking down amiably upon the branch of lilies in its hands.

"I want them early," said May, "because I prefer to pack myself, Louise.
You are such a kind creature, but I really prefer waiting upon myself."

"I shall pack for Madame," repeated Louise.

May went to the toilet table and put down the book that she was
carrying.

"Good night, Louise," was all she said.

Louise moved. She groaned, then she took hold of the door and began to
withdraw herself behind it.

"I wish Madame a good repose. I shall pack for Madame, comme il faut,"
she said with superb obstinacy, and she closed the door after her.

Good repose! Repose seemed to May the last word that was suitable. Fall
asleep she might, for she was strong and full of vigour, but repose----!

She read the poem once again through when she was in bed. Then she laid
the book under the pillow and turned out the light.

How many hours had she still in Oxford? About seventeen hours. And even
when she was back again at her work--sundered for ever from the place
that she had learned to love better than any other place in the
world--she would