what she had accepted as life was but a mask worn by a
leper. The vision persisted for what seemed a long while, and when it
faded it was pictures of her own life that she read upon the wall; her
soul cried out against the miserable record of her sins, and turning on
her pillow she saw the dawn--the inexorable light that was taking her
back to life, to sin, and all the miserable routine of vanity and
selfishness which she would have to begin again. She had left her
father, though she knew he would be lonely and unhappy without her. She
had lived with Owen when she knew it was wrong, and she had acquiesced
in his blasphemies, and by reading evil books she had striven to
undermine her faith in God. It seemed to her incredible that anyone
should be capable of such wickedness, yet she was that very one; she
had committed all sins, and in her great misery she wished herself dead,
so that she might think no more.

With eyes wide open to the dawn and to her soul she lay hour after hour.
She heard the French clock strike six sharp strokes, and unable to
endure her hot bed any longer, she got up, slipped her arms into a
dressing-gown, and went down to the drawing-room. It was filled with a
grey twilight, and the street was grey-blue and silent save for the
sparrows. Sitting on the edge of the sofa she remembered the convent.
The nuns had thought her a good Catholic, and she had had to pretend she
was. Monsignor, it is true, had turned the conversation and saved her
from exposure. But what then? She knew, and he knew, everyone knew; Lady
Ascott, Lady Mersey, Lady Duckle very probably didn't care, but
appearances had to be preserved, and she had to tell lies to them all.
Her life had become a network of lies. There was no corner of her life
into which she could look without finding a lie. She had been faithful
to no one, not even to Owen. She had another lover, and she had sent
Owen away on account of scruples of conscience! She could not understand
herself; she had taken Ulick to Dowlands and had lived with him
there--in her father's house. So awful did her life seem to her that her
thoughts stopped, and she became possessed of the desire of escape which
takes a trapped animal and forces it to gnaw off one of its legs. She
must escape from this life of lies whatever it cost her; she must free
herself. But how? If she went to Monsignor he would tell her she must
leave the stage, and she had promised to create the part of Grania. Sh