"I will write to you again, when I see my way more clearly. I told
you in the garden before you spoke that I was going away. Do not
seek to know my plans. For the sake of the years to come, obey me.

"HONORA."

She reread the letter, and sealed it. A new and different exaltation had
come to her--begotten, perhaps, in the act of writing. A new courage
filled her, and now she contemplated the ordeal with a tranquillity that
surprised her. The disorder and chaos of the night were passed, and she
welcomed the coming day, and those that were to follow it. As though the
fates were inclined to humour her impatience, there was a telegram on her
breakfast tray, dated at New York, and informing her that her husband
would be in Newport about the middle of the afternoon. His western trip
was finished a day earlier than he expected. Honora rang her bell.

"Mathilde, I am going away."

"Oui, madame."

"And I should like you to go with me."

"Oui, madame."

"It is only fair that you should understand, Mathilde. I am going away
alone. I am not--coming back."

The maid's eyes filled with sudden tears.

"Oh, madame," she cried, in a burst of loyalty, "if madame will permit me
to stay with her!"

Honora was troubled, but her strange calmness did not forsake her. The
morning was spent in packing, which was a simple matter. She took only
such things as she needed, and left her dinner-gowns hanging in the
closets. A few precious books of her own she chose, but the jewellery her
husband had given her was put in boxes and laid upon the dressing-table.
In one of these boxes was her wedding ring. When luncheon was over, an
astonished and perturbed butler packed the Leffingwell silver and sent it
off to storage.

There had been but one interruption in Honora's labours. A note had
arrived--from him--a note and a box. He would obey her! She had known he
would understand, and respect her the more. What would their love have
been, without that respect? She shuddered to think. And he sent her this
ring, as a token of that love, as undying as the fire in its stones.
Would she wear it, that in her absence she might think of him? Honora
kissed it and slipped it on her finger, where it sparkled. The letter was
beneath her gown, though she knew it by heart. Chiltern had gone at last:
he could not, he said, remain in Newport and not see her.

At midday she made but the pretence of a meal. It was not until
afterw