ught or look for any man but him since that night down by the
sea, when he came to her across the garden in the moonlight--not one
thought--and never would! Poor relief enough! She was in Hyde Park now,
wandering along a pathway which cut diagonally across the grass. And
with more resolution, more purpose, she began searching her memory for
signs, proofs of WHEN he had changed to her. She could not find them.
He had not changed in his ways to her; not at all. Could one act love,
then? Act passion, or--horrible thought!--when he kissed her nowadays,
was he thinking of that girl?

She heard the rustling of leaves behind. A youth was following her along
the path, some ravening youth, whose ungoverned breathing had a kind of
pathos in it. Heaven! What irony! She was too miserable to care, hardly
even knew when, in the main path again, she was free from his pursuit.
Love! Why had it such possession of her, that a little thing--yes, a
little thing--only the sight of him with another, should make her suffer
so? She came out on the other side of the park. What should she do?
Crawl home, creep into her hole, and lie there stricken! At Paddington
she found a train just starting and got in. There were other people
in the carriage, business men from the city, lawyers, from that--place
where she had been. And she was glad of their company, glad of the
crackle of evening papers and stolid faces giving her looks of stolid
interest from behind them, glad to have to keep her mask on, afraid of
the violence of her emotion. But one by one they got out, to their cars
or their constitutionals, and she was left alone to gaze at darkness and
the deserted river just visible in the light of a moon smothered behind
the sou'westerly sky. And for one wild moment she thought: 'Shall I open
the door and step out--one step--peace!'

She hurried away from the station. It was raining, and she drew up her
veil to feel its freshness on her hot face. There was just light enough
for her to see the pathway through the beech clump. The wind in there
was sighing, soughing, driving the dark boughs, tearing off the leaves,
little black wet shapes that came whirling at her face. The wild
melancholy in that swaying wood was too much for Gyp; she ran, thrusting
her feet through the deep rustling drifts of leaves not yet quite
drenched. They clung all wet round her thin stockings, and the rainy
wind beat her forehead. At the edge, she paused for breath, leaning
ag