Janet walked quickly through the darkening country. A power from behind seemed to be driving her on—a hot, smoky power of uttermost shame. It was symbolised by the thunder-vapour that curled in the east, a black, swagging cloud that lumbered towards the sunset over reaches of heat-washed sky.

She hardly realised how she had won through that interview at Redpale Farm. The details were dim and jumbled in her memory, like the details of what has taken place just before an accident or during an illness. She hoped she had not been undignified, but really did not care very much about it. The tension which had characterised both her calmness and her hysteria was gone—her emotions seemed to flop. Unlike so many women, pride gave her no support in her dreadful hour.

But her feelings were merely relaxed, not subdued, and her loose, run-down nerves quivered as agonisedly as during their stretch and strain. The realisation of all she had lost swept over her heart, engulfing it. The very fields through which she walked were part of this realisation—it was here, or it was there, that she had stood with Quentin on such and such a day, or had watched him coming towards her out of the mist-blurred distance, or seen him go from her, stopping to raise his arm in farewell, just there, where the foxgloves lifted purple poles in the ditches of Starswhorne. She could see the thickets of Furnace Wood, hazed over with heat—they were haunted now, she would never go near Furnace Wood again. Two ghosts wandered up and down its heat-baked paths, rustled in the hazels, and stood where the tufted hedge shut off Furnace Field—loving and dumb. They were not the ghosts of dead bodies, but of dead selves—of two who walked apart in distant ways, who would never again meet each other save in memory and in sleep.

A metallic hardness had dropped upon the day. The arch of the sky was steel, sunless, yet bright with a cold sheen; at the rim it dipped to copper, hot and sullen, save where in the west two brazen bars sent out harsh lights to rest on the fields and make them too like brass.

Janet at last reached Sparrow Hall, and as she did so, for the first time felt physical fatigue. It came upon her in a spasm—she was just able to stagger into the kitchen, and sink down in her accustomed chair, every muscle aching and exhausted, her head splitting with pain, and her body shuddering with a sudden and unaccountable sickness.

For some time she did not move, she just fought with the sheer physical discomfort of it all. Her head lay on the table, her arms were spread over the wood, and the collapsed line of her shoulders was of utter powerlessness and pain. Then two tears rolled slowly from her eyes—they were part of her physical plight, and for it alone she wept. For the sorrow of her soul it seemed as if she could only weep dry salt.

Oh, merciful God!—Quentin looked upon her love as his ruin, and turned from her in panic to another woman. In this other love he would find the peace and happiness and goodness that Janey had ached and striven for years to give him; he would learn to forget the wicked Janey Furlonger, whose love had all but been his perdition, who had brought him to sin and torture and despair—and now would lie in the background of his heart, as an evil thing we cover up and pray to forget. This young, innocent girl would save him from his memories of the woman who had given more for his sake than Tony Strife would ever dream of giving. He did not realise her sacrifice—she had given up for his sake the innocence and purity that were more to her simple soul than life, and now he turned from her because she had them not.

Then for the first time a convulsion of wrath seized Janey. For the first time she saw the cruelty and outrage of it all. Her anger blazed up—against Quentin, against the world, against herself. His last letter lay on the table. She seized it, and thrust it into the fire. Then she noticed the box that held his other letters. She seized that too, and crammed it into the grate. Long tongues of flame shot out, and suddenly one of them caught her dress—she screamed, flames and smoke seemed to wrap her round, and in madness she rushed to the door. A man was in the passage. He grasped her, and held her to him, beating out the flames.

"Quentin!" she shrieked, "Quentin! Quentin!"

"Janey—darling sister! There! it's all over now. The fire's out. Are you much hurt?"

"Quentin! Quentin!"

Leonard picked her up bodily, and carried her into the kitchen, sitting down by the fire with her on his knee. He began to examine her. Her skirt was nothing but charred rags, her face and hands were black with grime, and there was a horrible smell of singed hair, but she did not seem to be actually burnt. She was trembling from head to feet, her face hidden against his breast.

"I don't think you're really hurt, dear. What a lucky chance I happened to be there! If I'd done as I said and gone to Cherrygarden, you might have been burnt to death. How did you do it, Janey?"

"I was burning Quentin's letters.... Oh, Quentin! Quentin!"

The last dregs of Janey's self-control were gone. Anxiety, shock, grief, humiliation, love, despair and sickening, physical fright, all crowded into a few short hours, had almost deprived her of her reason.

"Quentin! Quentin!" she cried, clinging to Leonard.

She was so tall that he had difficulty in holding her on his knee while she struggled.

"Janey, I can't understand, dearest. Who's Quentin?—not Quentin Lowe?"

"Yes—Quentin Lowe. Lenny, Lenny—he doesn't love me any more."

Leonard kissed her smoke-grimed face repeatedly. He was utterly bewildered.

"He doesn't love me any more," she continued, gasping. "He loves Tony Strife—he's going to marry her. Lenny, he's a devil."

"My darling, can't you tell me what it is? Did you ever love him?"

"Oh, I loved him! I loved him! I gave up all I had to him. Lenny, he thinks my love was his ruin ... he wants to be happy and good, and he thinks he can't be either if he loves me ... he says—

"My poor old Janey, I'm going to carry you upstairs."

"I can walk," and she tried to stand, but he had only just time to catch her.

"I'm going to carry you. Poor, poor Janey—see what a big baby you are."

He carried her up the rickety stairs, into her room, laying her on the bed.

"Would you like to undress?"

"No—no—Lenny, don't leave me."

He was in despair.

"Janey, dearest, I wish you'd tell me what's happened. I can't comfort you properly when I don't know. Do you really mean to say that you love Quentin Lowe?"

"I love him ... oh, I love him ... but he's a devil."

"Did he know?—did he love you?"

"Yes, he loved me ... and he made me give up everything for his sake ... and now he's going to marry another woman ... Oh, Lenny, Lenny, I want Nigel!"

"Janey—don't—I simply can't bear this. Don't give way so—he isn't worth it."

"Oh, I knew you'd say that."

"I won't say it if you don't like it. But don't be in despair—you'll soon feel better—you'll get over it. And meantime there's Nigel and me...."

"Oh, I want Nigel!"

"I'll wire to him to come down for the week-end, after his concert."

"Lenny ... you'll never forsake me?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"I don't expect—I daren't——"

"What do you mean?"

"The disgrace ..."

He stared at her in bewilderment.

"Oh, Lenny ... I don't think you understand."

She had made him understand at last—and in the process had strangely enough recovered something of her self-control. At first she had thought his brain could never receive this ghastly new impression; but gradually she had seen the colour fade from his lips, while a terrible sternness crept into his eyes; she had seen his hand go up to his forehead with the swift yet uncertain movement of one who has been smitten.

"My God!"

Leonard stepped back from the bed.

She lay gazing at him like a drowning woman. She saw the stern lines of his mouth—had girls any right to expect their brothers to forgive them such things? Yet if Lenny turned from her ... if she lost not only Quentin but the boys....

For a moment there was silence in the little room, with its faded reds and casement open to the fields.

Then suddenly Leonard sprang forward, stooped, and caught Janey in his arms, turning her face to his breast.

They clung together in silence, both trembling. The first faint wind of the evening crept in and ruffled their hair.

"You won't love me so much now."

"I will love you more—but, by God! I'll kill that man!"

"No—no!—Len, no!"

"Hush, dear, don't get excited again."

"But you must promise ... he—he's only a boy."

"Boy be damned! He's a skunk—he's a loathly little reptile, that's all. He isn't worthy to sweep out your cinders, and he—oh, God, Janey! I'd give my life to-morrow for the privilege of wringing his neck to-night."

"Len, promise me you won't hurt him—I—I shall die if you do."

"Well, I'll promise to leave him alone for the present, because I've got you to look after. I want you to go to sleep, dear. Do you think you could sleep?"

"I'm sure I couldn't."

"You could if I mixed you some nice hot brandy and water. Let me go downstairs and get some."

"Oh, Lenny—I'm frightened of being alone."

"But it won't take me a minute—the kettle's on the fire."

The combined longing for a stimulant and for oblivion was too intense for Janey to resist.

"You're sure you won't be long?"

"Yes—I promise—just down and up again."

"Then thank you, Len."

He went down to the kitchen, and mixed a pretty stiff grog—for himself. Janey had been too over-wrought to notice that her brother was trembling and flushed, and that there was a strange, drawn look about his face. He had turned back half-way to Cherrygarden because he felt "queer," and to this no doubt she owed her life. In the horror and confusion of the last half-hour he had forgotten his own illness, but now it was growing upon him, and he must fight it for her sake. He drank a tumblerful of brandy and water, then mixed some for Janey, and went upstairs.

He helped her take off her charred skirt and bodice, and wrapped her in a dressing-gown. He bathed her smoky face and hands, then he pulled a rug over her, and gave her the brandy. It was a strong dose for a woman, and in spite of all she had said she was soon asleep.

He sat down beside her and closed his eyes. The soft air fanned him, and the scents of the little garden steamed up and scattered themselves in the room.

Janey lay with her head sunk deep in the pillow, her face half-buried in it, and her breathing came heavily, almost in sobs. Her knees were drawn up, and her arms crossed on her breast, the hands twisted together—there was something pathetic and childish in the huddled attitude.

Leonard thought to himself—

"It's nearly time for Nigel's concert—I wonder if he's thinking of Janey and me."