she knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she
had had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At
last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old
self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that
she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned,
the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. "And now--now,"
she said, "I know that I cannot live without you."

It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the
merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known.

"You asked me of the other man," she said. "I will tell you."

"Not now," he said. "You loved him?"

"No--ah God, no!" she answered.

An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of
correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from
Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected to meet
him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not written;
Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. His letters
had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying that his plans
were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. After he came
to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? No, let the
American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the worst
light, with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself an
insult. So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next
were from his grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He
could not read them. A few loving sentences, and then he said: