he had given all the love of which she was
capable; she had admired him for his strength and his spirit, had liked
him as a companion, had prized the flattery of his ardent devotion, his
staunch fidelity. To have married him was, of course, a mistake, not
easy of explanation in her present mind; she regretted it, but with no
bitterness, with no cruel or even unkind thought. His haggard features,
branded with the long rage of captivity; his great limbs, wasted to
mere bone and muscle, moved her indignant pity. Poor dear old boy!

He believed her; he still believed her. She saw that these two years of
misery had made his faith in her something like a religion; he found it
his one refuge from despair. 'But for that, Sibyl, I shouldn't be alive
now!' She had known self-reproach; now again it touched her slightly,
passingly--poor old boy! But unfaithful to him? To call _that_
unfaithfulness? The idea was too foolish.

Her fears were all outlived. She had dared the worst, and daring was
grown an easy habit. But in the life that lay before them, _her_
judgment, _her_ ambitions, must prevail and direct. Yesterday she had
no course save yielding; today her rule must begin.

Hugh was stirring. He groaned, and threw out one of his arms; muttered,
as if angrily. She touched him, and on the instant he awoke.

'Sibyl? Good God! that's a queer thing--I dreamt that yesterday was a
dream, and that I had woke up to find myself---- Did you ever do
that--dream you were dreaming?'

She stroked his head, laughing playfully.

'You've had a good long night. Don't you feel better? Shall I bring you
some breakfast here?'

'No; I must get up. What's the time? Miles will be coming.'

Sibyl knew that the Major would not be here until two o'clock; but she
said nothing, and left him to dress.

On the breakfast-table were delicacies to tempt his palate, but Hugh
turned from them. He ate for a few minutes only, without appetite, and,
as on the day before, Sibyl was annoyed by the strange rudeness with
which he fed himself; he seemed to have forgotten the habits of
refinement at table. Afterwards he lighted a cigar, but soon threw it
aside; tobacco made him sick. In the drawing-room he moved aimlessly
about, blundering now and then against a piece of furniture, and
muttering a curse. The clothes he wore, out of his old wardrobe, hung
loose about him; he had a stoop in the shoulders.

'Sibyl, what are we going to do?'

For this she had waite