ars.

"My poor life! My poor life!"

That was the interior cry of her being, again and again repeated--"My
poor life--stricken, soiled, crushed down in the ooze of a nameless
filth."

Childless and now betrayed! How terrible had been her happiness on the
edge of the pit! The days in Greece--Robin--Dion's return from the war!
And she had wished to live rightly; she had loved the noble things; she
had had ideals and she had tried to follow them. Purity before all she
had----

She sickened; her crying became violent. Afraid lest some of the sisters
should hear her, she pressed her hands over her face and sank down on
the bed.

Presently she saw Mrs. Clarke before her, the woman whom she had thought
to keep out of her life--the fringe of her life--and who had found the
way into the sacred places.

She cried for a long while, lying there on the bed, with her face
pressed against her hands, and her hands pressed against the pillow; but
at least she ceased from crying. She had poured out all the tears of her
body.

She sat up. It was long past midnight. The house was silent. Slowly she
began to undress, hating her body all the time. She bathed her face
and hands in cold water, and, when she felt the water, shivered at the
thought of the stain. When she was ready for bed she looked again at the
crucifix. She ought to pray, she must pray. She went to the crucifix and
stood in front of it, but her knees refused to bend. Her pride of woman
had received a terrific blow that day, and just because of that she felt
she could not humble herself.

"I cannot pray--I won't pray," she whispered.

And she turned away, put out the light and got into bed.

That Dion should have done that, should have been able to do that!

And she remembered what it was she had first loved in Dion, the thing
which had made him different from other men; she remembered the days and
the nights in Greece. She saw two lovers in a morning land descending
the path from the hill of Drouva, going down into the green recesses of
quiet Elis. She saw Hermes and the child.

All that night she lay awake. In the morning she sent the note to Father
Robertson.

She could not see Lady Ingleton and yet she dreaded her departure. She
wanted to know more, much more. A gnawing hunger of curiosity assailed
her. This woman had been with Dion--since. This woman knew of his
infidelity; yet she affirmed his love for his wife. But the one
knowledge surely gave the lie