, it will have to come." And,
suddenly it came.

He broke down absolutely, threw himself on his face on the divan with
his arms stretched out beyond his head, grasped the cushions and sobbed.
His body shook and twitched; his face was contorted; his soul writhed.
A storm that came from within him broke upon him. He crashed into
the abyss. Down, down he went, till the last faint ray from above was
utterly blotted out. She whom he had loved so much sent him down, she
who far away had given herself to God. He felt her ruthless hands--the
hands of a good woman, the hands of a loving mother--pressing him
down. Let her have her will. He would go into the last darkness. Then,
perhaps, she would be more at ease; then, perhaps, she would know the
true peace of God. He would pay to the uttermost farthing both for
himself and for her.

Outside, just hidden from him by the pavilion wall, Mrs. Clarke stood
in the shadow of one of the cypresses, and listened. The trip on the
"Leyla" had served two purposes. It was better so. When a thing must
be, the sooner it is over the better. And she had waited for a very long
time. She drew her brows together as she thought of the long time she
had waited. Then she moved and walked away down the terrace. She had
heard enough.

She went to the far end of the terrace. A wooden seat was placed there
in the shadow of a plane tree. She sat down on it, rested her pointed
chin in the palm of her right hand, with her elbow on her knee, and
remained motionless. She was giving him time; time to weep away the past
and the good woman who had ruined his life. Even now she knew how to be
patient. In a way she pitied him. If she had not had to be patient for
such a long time she would have pitied him much more. But he had often
hurt her; and, as Lady Ingleton had said, she was by nature a cruel
woman. Nevertheless she pitied him for being, or for having been, so
exclusive in love. And she wondered at him not a little.

Lit-up caiques glided out on the bay far beneath her. A band was playing
on the quay. She wished it would stop, and she glanced at a little watch
which Aristide Dumeny had given her, and which was pinned among the dark
blue folds of her gown. But she could not see its face clearly, and she
lit a match. A quarter-past ten. The band played till eleven. She lit a
cigarette and stared down the hill at the moving lights in the bay.

She had made many water excursions at night. Some of them--two o