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personal honours that were bestowed on Martin touched me most of all.

First, the Royal Geographical Society held a meeting at the Albert Hall,
where the Gold Medal was presented to him. I was in a fever of anxiety
on the night of that function, I remember, until Dr. O'Sullivan (heaven
bless, him!) came flying upstairs, to tell me that it had been a
"splendid success," and Martin's speech (he hadn't prepared a word of
it) "a perfect triumph."

Then some of the Universities conferred degrees on my darling, which was
a source of inexpressible amusement to him, especially when (after
coming back from Edinburgh) he marched up and down my room in his
Doctor's cap and gown, and I asked him to spell "promise" and he
couldn't.

Oh, the joy of it all! It was so great a joy that at length it became a
pain.

The climax came when the Home Secretary wrote to say that the King had
been graciously pleased to confer a Knighthood upon Martin, in
recognition of his splendid courage and the substantial contribution he
had already made to the material welfare of the world.

That frightened me terribly, though only a woman would know why. It was
one thing to share the honours of the man I loved (however secretly and
as it were by stealth), but quite another thing to feel that they were
carrying him away from me, drawing him off, lifting him up, and leaving
me far below.

When the sense of this became acute I used to sit at night, when Mildred
was out at her work, by the lofty window of her room, looking down on
the precincts of Piccadilly, and wondering how much my darling really
knew about the impulse that took me there, and how nearly (but for the
grace of God) its awful vortex had swallowed me up.

It was then that I began to write these notes (having persuaded Mildred
to buy me this big book with its silver clasp and key), not intending at
first to tell the whole story of my life, but only to explain to him for
whom everything has been written (what I could not bring myself to say
face to face), how it came to pass that I was tempted to that sin which
is the most awful crime against her sex that a woman can commit.

Three months had gone by this time, the spring was coming and I was
beginning to feel that Martin (who had not yet been home) was being kept
in London on my account, when Dr. O'Sullivan announced that I was well
enough to be moved, and that a little of my native air would do me good.

Oh, the thrill that came w