. But Cecily
was of the new world, the emancipated order. For a time she might
accept misery as her inalienable lot, but her youthful years, fed with
the new philosophy, must in the end rebel.

Could she live with such a man without sooner or later taking a taint
of his ignobleness? His path was downwards, and how could she hope to
keep her own course in independence of him? It shamed her that she had
ever loved him. But indeed she had not loved the Reuben that now was;
the better part of him was then predominant. No matter that he was
changed; no matter how low he descended; she must still be bound to
him. Whereas he acknowledged no mutual bond; he was a man, and
therefore in practice free.

Yet she was as far as ever from projecting escape. The unjust law was
still a law, and irresistible. Had it been her case that she loved some
other man, and his return of love claimed her, then indeed she might
dare anything and break her chains. But the power of love seemed as
dead in her as the passion she had once, and only once, conceived. She
was utterly alone.

Morning and noon went by. She had exhausted herself with ceaseless
movement, and now for two or three hours lay on a couch as if asleep.
The fever burned upon her forhead and in her breath.

But at length endurance reached its limits. As she lay still, a thought
had taken possession of her--at first rejected again and again, but
always returning, and with more tempting persistency. She could not
begin another night without having spoken to some one. She seemed to
have been foresaken for days; there was no knowing how long she might
live here in solitude. When it was nearly five o'clock, she went to her
bedroom and prepared for going out.

When ready, she met the servant who was bringing up tea.

"I shall not want it," she said. "And probably I shall not dine at
home. Nothing need be prepared."

She entered the library, and took up from the writing-table Mallard's
note; she looked at the address that was on it.

Then she left the house, and summoned the first vacant cab.

CHAPTER XIII

ONWARD TO THE VAGUE

The cab drew up in a quiet road in Chelsea, by a gateway opening into a
yard. Cecily alighted and paid the driver.

"Be good enough to wait a minute or two," she said. "I may need you
again at once. But if I am longer, I shall not be coming."

Entering the yard, she came in front of a row of studios; on the door
of each was the tenant's name,