; her almost involuntary submission to his will.... Then her
thoughts passed on to their walk home from the hospital--she recalled
his sober yet unsparing summary of the situation at Westmore, and the
note of insight with which he touched on the hardships of the
workers.... Then, word by word, their talk about Dillon came
back...Amherst's indignation and pity...his shudder of revolt at the
man's doom.

"_In your work, don't you ever feel tempted to set a poor devil free?_"
And then, after her conventional murmur of protest: "_To save what,
when all the good of life is gone?_"

To distract her thoughts she stretched her hand toward the book-case,
taking out the first volume in reach--the little copy of Bacon. She
leaned back, fluttering its pages aimlessly--so wrapped in her own
misery that the meaning of the words could not reach her. It was useless
to try to read: every perception of the outer world was lost in the hum
of inner activity that made her mind like a forge throbbing with heat
and noise. But suddenly her glance fell on some pencilled sentences on
the fly-leaf. They were in Amherst's hand, and the sight arrested her as
though she had heard him speak.

_La vraie morale se moque de la morale...._

_We perish because we follow other men's examples...._

_Socrates used to call the opinions of the many by the name of
Lamiae--bugbears to frighten children...._

A rush of air seemed to have been let into her stifled mind. Were they
his own thoughts? No--her memory recalled some confused association with
great names. But at least they must represent his beliefs--must embody
deeply-felt convictions--or he would scarcely have taken the trouble to
record them.

She murmured over the last sentence once or twice: _The opinions of the
many--bugbears to frighten children...._ Yes, she had often heard him
speak of current judgments in that way...she had never known a mind so
free from the spell of the Lamiae.

* * * * *

Some one knocked, and she put aside the book and rose to her feet. It
was a maid bringing a note from Wyant.

"There has been a motor accident beyond Clifton, and I have been sent
for. I think I can safely be away for two or three hours, but ring me up
at Clifton if you want me. Miss Mace has instructions, and Garford's
assistant will be down at seven."

She looked at the clock: it was just three, the hour at which she was to
relieve Miss Mace. She smoothed the ha