had wandered about Stamboul together, when she
had tried to play to him the part Dumeny had once played to her, were
long ago over.

On the day when the thought of England occurred to Mrs. Clarke as a
possible place of refuge she had promised to meet Dion late in the
evening at their rooms near the Persian Khan. She loathed going to those
rooms. They reminded her painfully of all she had felt for Dion and felt
no longer. They spoke to her of the secrecy of a passion that was dead.
She was afraid of them. But she was still more afraid of seeing Dion
in her flat. Nevertheless, now the gleam of hope which had come to her
suddenly woke up in her something of her old recklessness. Since the
servants had gone to the Villa Hafiz she had been living in the flat
with Sonia, who was an excellent cook as well as a capital maid. She
resolved to ask Dion to dinner that night, and to try her fortune once
more with him. England must be horrible to him. Then she would go to
England. And if he followed her there he would at least be punished for
his persecution of her.

Already she called his determination not to break their intrigue
persecution. She had a short memory.

After a talk with Sonia she summoned a messenger and sent Dion a note,
asking him to dinner that night. He replied that he would come. His
answer ended with the words: "We can go to the rooms later."

As Mrs. Clarke read them her fingers closed on the paper viciously, and
she said to herself:

"I'll not go. I'll never go to them again."

She told Sonia about the dinner. Then she dressed and went out.

It was a warm and languid day. She took a carriage and told the coachman
to drive to Stamboul--to drive on till she gave him the direction where
to go in Stamboul. She had no special object in view. But she longed to
be out in the air, to drive, to see people about her, the waterway,
the forest of shipping, the domes and the minarets, the cypresses, the
glades stretching towards Seraglio Point, the long, low hills of Asia.
She longed, too, to hear voices, hurrying feet, the innumerable sounds
of life. She hoped by seeing and hearing to fortify her will. The spirit
of adventure was the spirit that held her, was the most vital part
within her, and such a spirit needed freedom to breathe in. She was
fettered. She had been a coward, or almost a coward, false, perhaps, to
her fortunate star. Hitherto she had always followed Nietzsche's advice
and had lived perilously.