One morning, weary and depressed after a wakeful night, her determination had faltered at the very moment of setting out on an expedition with Tony as sole escort. With her foot actually on the step of the carriage she had suddenly informed him, somewhat curtly, that he really must amuse himself that day, returning and shutting herself in her room, deaf to all expostulations.

Tony, decidedly chagrined, had loitered for a while in the lonely flat—teased the dog—flirted with one of the maid-servants—and had finally taken his departure.

Evarne sat on in solitude, alternately striving to read a novel and freely permitting her tortured imagination to dwell on the vision of Morris and Lucinda being whirled happily together through the fresh country lanes.

A few hours later, hearing a footstep and the sound of the opening front door, and wishing now to make peace with Tony before the others returned and troubled her with "whys" and "wherefores," she went to the drawing-room, prepared to be very sweet and amiable. But the footsteps had not been those of her host. It was the motoring couple who had returned thus early.

Lucinda, vivacious as usual, had already removed her hat and veil, and was drawing off her long gloves. She worked industriously at the fingers of one hand until she had drawn a loose end of the white kid forward over each finger-tip then suddenly called upon Morris.

"I'm impatient. I can't tear these things off. You had better come to the rescue."

Gathering up the already loose ends between his thumb and finger, Morris took hold of her other hand also, and suddenly jerked both her arms forcibly over his shoulders. As she unavoidably fell forward on his breast he encircled her waist and kissed the laughing face so near to his own.

"There's none like you, you damned little witch," he declared.

Evarne had not desired to be an eavesdropper, and had no thought of concealing her presence now. She still held in her hand the book she had been reading, and, with a sharp indrawing of her breath, announced her presence by violently flinging the volume to the ground with a loud bang.

Seeing her, Lucinda uttered a scream and fled. Morris remained without moving, gazing at the girl with the utmost nonchalance.

"You've precipitated matters, Evarne," he said calmly.

Her first outburst of anger was directed against Lucinda.

"There's nothing in all this world that is more utterly despicable and hateful and detestable, more altogether vile, than to pretend a friendship for a woman in order to get chances to steal her lover!" she cried, with sufficient energy to suggest that she was directing her opinion through the closed door that Lucinda had banged after her in her hurried flight.

"All's fair in love and war," retorted Morris.

"That's a lie," was the startlingly frank answer.

"Is it? Then what about you and Tony?"

"Tony Belmont? Be careful, Morris! What about us? That creature, seeing something more to her taste in you, has flung her cast-off lover at my head. He has played into her hands readily enough, and you have stood by and seen it being done. How dare you then ask such a question?"

"Well, you may choose to look at it in that light, but the fact remains unaltered and undeniable that Tony practically deserted Lucinda from the time he first saw you, and you didn't care one jot what suffering it caused that poor little woman."

"Poor defenceless little darling!"

The words were spoken with bitter sarcasm, while the fiery indignation already surging within the girl's breast increased tenfold beneath this amazing accusation—this unscrupulous falsifying of the truth. There was a moment's silence, then her words rang out with passionate force—

"Oh, the arch hypocrisy! Liars, both of you—abject liars—trying to make excuses for your own foul treachery! It's sickening! I shan't stay another night—no, not another hour—beneath her roof."

"It is Tony's roof, and you had better remain."

"I won't, I won't! How can you even suggest such a thing? I can't breathe the same air that she does. It's poisonous—contaminated!"

"Gently, gently; you'll be overheard."

"Rubbish! I don't care! I won't be gentle. What do you mean by defending her? What is she to you?"

And the verbal refusal to be gentle was confirmed by a violent blow on the table.

Morris, albeit decidedly surprised, answered with unruffled suavity. He was quite willing to make allowances for this natural anger and show of indignation; at the same time the wondrous patience the girl had exhibited hitherto had given him little cause to anticipate the tempestuous quality of her aroused wrath.

"Is your philosophy all culled from antique authors, sweet student? Have you never found time to peep into Darwin and assimilate the doctrine of the Survival of the Fittest?"

"What's that to do——?" she cried in bewilderment, not seeing at first any connection between her question and this answer. Yet even as she spoke came a sudden mental illumination of his meaning.

"Morris, you can't mean to say you really do prefer that vulgar, coarse-minded, spiteful, abandoned creature to—to——Oh Heaven!"

She brushed her hair roughly back from her forehead, and stared at him fixedly, her big eyes still full of incredulity. Then she uttered a brief laugh of mingled bitterness and disdain.

"But there! From a man's point of view, I suppose the Fittest always and only implies the Newest. Despicable wretches, the whole lot of you."

Morris, amused at this sweeping statement, smiled as he answered—

"But it's a little weakness that is no ways confined to mere man. It isn't only to us that constancy spells boredom. It's all very well for middle-aged women, who feel their power of pleasing on the wane, to cling like limpets. We expect it, and it's one reason why wise men avoid 'em. It always means beastly rows in the long run. But, thank goodness, at your time of life, my child, variety is charming, even to the fair sex."

The latter portion of these sentiments fell unheeded—practically unheard. All the girl's thoughts and senses were concentrated upon her own agony of spirit. Fully grasping now, for the very first time, that Morris's defection was serious and deliberate, all indignation and resentment were swamped by a wave of wild grief and horror before which all else broke down. When she could speak it was only in disjointed sentences, in a voice that quivered under stress of emotion and struggled with choking sobs.

"Oh, oh! Can I only bore you now by loving you? You can't mean that. Not really and truly. I can't have lost your love so utterly. What have I ever done? Oh, Morris, what have I done? I've never altered to you, and I never would. I would always be faithful to you—always. Is it a curse to have a faithful heart? I can't stop caring for you, because you tell me to; how—how can I? Are you really altogether tired of me? I knew men did get tired, easily, cruelly easily, but somehow——Perhaps if I'd been different? Oh, I did try! I did, always! I did! But there, I've been so utterly miserable lately, it's better really to know the truth straight out at once. Tell me the truth, Morris."

"But you know it, my dear."

"Tell me, tell me!"

"Now what is the good of upsetting yourself like this? Come, come!"

"You're going to give that—that woman—my place! Oh! you'll be sorry. She's only selfish and mercenary. She doesn't love you, and I do. You—you don't care for that, though. Oh, how can you?"

Morris was feeling awkwardly uncomfortable. He took a flower from a vase, and put it in his buttonhole before he spoke.

"I'm perfectly aware," he confessed at length, "that in the abstract Lucinda is neither so handsome, so brilliant, nor so really delightful as you are, but still—still——" He paused. "There, I'm not worth bothering about, so dry your eyes."

By a powerful effort of self-command she managed to regain some degree of composure, and to steady her voice. Quite quietly she repeated his words, "not worth bothering about," then, after an interval, "Ah, me!"

The tender yearning tone in which this little exclamation came was fraught with significance. After another moment's thought she approached quite close to him, and rested the tips of her fingers upon his chest.

"I'm afraid you are worth bothering about, my dear," she went on, making a rather pitiful little attempt to hide her sick anxiety by pretending to smile. Then, after a somewhat protracted pause, she spoke again.

"I—I—there, why should I be ashamed to say it again, even now? I love you still—oh, so much! I'm sure I shall always love you. I can't help it. We can't arrange our feelings so that they shall always be convenient and suitable. It was never really right that we should care for one another at all, because—because of your wife, and I would never—no never—have taken her place if you had even so much as hinted that you might one day come to look upon it as something merely temporary; something that could be lightly set aside as soon as you met another woman whom you—liked a bit.

"No, don't speak, Morris! I haven't done yet. You know full well that though I loved you, oh! so dearly, I never wanted to lead any other than what I thought was a perfectly honourable life. You know you didn't win me easily, in spite of everything being in your favour. You told me that because you had made a mistake in your marriage you were lonely and unhappy, and that, though you couldn't make me really your wife, our union should be as lasting and sacred as any legal bond. It was to be your true marriage. You're not treating me fairly now, dear, you're not really. You ought to feel really more tied to me by honour and loyalty than you would do even if I were indeed your wife, and had not lost my good name for your sake. I've never been troublesome and jealous, you can't say that, and when you found you were getting—well, seriously attached to another woman, it's not a bit unreasonable of me to think you ought to have avoided seeing her again. You owed it to me to be true always—you did, indeed. You knew I was not like Mrs. Belmont, who treats these ties so lightly. Come away now, darling—come away from Paris. She can't really have won your heart yet—only your fancy, only your passing fancy, Morris. You would soon forget her. Come away with me, and we will be so happy together again, and honest and upright and without any cause to be ashamed, either of us. Do come, darling—do, do."

Her arms were tightly clasped around his neck, and her wistful, eager face—the piteous brown eyes moist and beseeching—were close to his. But beauty that has palled no longer possesses power. Sentimental appeals to honour and loyalty were very troublesome; while the reference to an imaginary link that was to be held binding upon him for evermore was merely vexing.

"You're a good, sweet little soul," he said, rather testily, unclasping her arms—"no one knows that better than I do—and I should have supposed, therefore, that you would be the last to suggest that we should continue our life together without mutual love. On the contrary, a woman of your moral excellence ought not to be willing to consent to such a proceeding. And, what's more, you mustn't blame me, you know. Remember your own wise words, 'We can't arrange our feelings, our affections, according to what would be, perhaps, the most conducive to a quiet life.' We may all be but the sport of the gods, but let's go on strike against taking part in any tragedies for the entertainment of the higher powers. Let's insist on being merely comedians. We will say good-bye smilingly, and thus snap our fingers at Fate."

Evarne twisted her hands together helplessly. She had much to say, so much, but further speech was beyond her power.

Her throat swelled, she bit the inside of her lower lip pitilessly to stay its quivering, but was scarcely conscious of the tears that poured down her cheeks unheeded. After a minute's futile struggle to retain some show of self-command, she moved away a step or two, sank into an armchair, buried her face in the cushions, and sobbed without restraint.

A tumultuous medley of wild impassioned ideas surged within her brain, incomplete thoughts, disconnected and rapidly cast aside. But, amid them all, were none urging calm submission, dignified resignation. On the contrary, all alike were directed on evolving some method of warding off this unendurable blow—or, at least, since it had fallen, of nullifying its effects.

The thing seemed so incredible, unreal, impossible, the end of all life. She resolutely declined to admit that there was nothing whatsoever to be done; she could not consent to allow all hope to leave her. And yet—yet—immovable and grim, the bedrock underlying these wild surgings of despised and deserted love, was the conviction that her richest store of eloquence, the whole of her most intense and protracted efforts, would prove powerless to alter the inevitable. Distracted, tortured, she gasped between her sobs—

"I shall kill myself."

Morris was just in the act of stealing softly from the room. Looking rather foolish, he turned sharply, and crossed over to her side.

"Tut, tut! You don't know what you're saying now, you're talking wildly," he declared soothingly. "You really mustn't take things so to heart. You'll make yourself quite ill. Go and lie down quietly, and I'll send Bianca in to you with a cup of tea."

"You think I don't know what I'm saying, but I know that I'm not saying half I feel," she declared truthfully enough. Then, after a moment's further reflection, her momentary composure again gave way. "Oh, how could you make me love you, only to treat me like this? It was cruel, brutal! How can I bear it?"

Morris patted her shoulder encouragingly, but remained silent. He had been through a few tempestuous scenes ere this, and knowing that a man did not shine on such occasions, was resigned to looking and feeling foolish while it lasted, devoting his efforts chiefly to getting the mauvais quart d'heure over as quietly as possible. For this, his one theory lay in the proverb, "Least said, soonest mended."

Evarne put out her hand and pushed him away.

"Don't do that—don't! You know you hate me now."

Again Morris smiled; women always went to such extremes.

"Bless you, not a bit of it! Why, I hope we are going to part the best of friends," was his lightly spoken disavowal of this accusation.

"To part!" murmured Evarne, after him, monotonously—"to part!"

Then suddenly an inward voice seemed to commence repeating over and over again, "There is nothing so dead as a dead love. There is nothing so dead as a dead love. Nothing so dead, nothing, nothing!" It was maddening. The unhesitating certainty—the calm conviction animating the phrase—brought final despair. In it she heard a call, inspired by the wisdom of ages, the outcome of the most bitter experience of long generations of mankind; a call to abandon efforts that were predestined to be sterile. It was as if she were abruptly faced by the inscription that Dante read over the gateways of hell. Sitting erect, she lifted her voice in lamentation.

"Oh, Morris, darling, you can't change so utterly. You're the same man. I'm still the same woman. How many times did you swear you would love me always and ever—always and ever—and now I'm only just twenty!" she wailed, catching at his arm and pressing her cheek to his coat-sleeve, while her sobs grew louder and more convulsive.

Morris, already wearied, felt a tiny twinge of compunction, and was thereupon easily moved to anger by her impassioned weeping.

"For goodness' sake, Evarne, do let us have an end to this ridiculous scene," he said roughly, shaking himself free from her despairing hold. "Do recognise the fact that not all the pleading in the world will have any effect on me. If you don't pull yourself together you'll have hysterics in a moment, and I've no patience with hysterical women."

The action, the cruel words themselves, and the tone in which they were uttered, combined to goad the girl to sudden wrath. She sprang to her feet, and without a moment's hesitation frantically struck him on the chest with her clenched fist.

"Don't think I shall ask anything of you now—no, not so much as your patience," she cried. "I don't intend to plead with any man for his love, least of all with you—don't think it! I never want to see you again, never! Go to Mrs. Belmont—go and make her your mistress."

Morris allowed himself to be thoroughly angered by the blow.

"Thanks for the permission," he said curtly; "but it happens to be quite unnecessary, as we have not waited for it."

He now anticipated being deluged beneath a torrent of words, but though her lips parted, Evarne stood quite speechless, only blinking her eyes a little, as if bewildered and dazed. Then she slowly retreated backwards across the room step by step, until she was brought to a standstill by reaching the china cabinet. Leaning against it, she turned her head from side to side for a minute or two, then, producing a flimsy, ineffectual little handkerchief, proceeded, with strange, unlooked-for composure, to wipe her eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"So now you see you may just as well be sensible and resigned, eh?" suggested Morris, with forced carelessness.

Evarne made no sign of having heard, but continued her touching little occupation. The protracted silence became embarrassing. Morris was haunted by the fear that this apparently delightful calm must be but ominous and deceptive.

"I'll make different arrangements by to-morrow," he continued at length, in a business-like tone. "I can understand you don't care to be in the same place. I ought not to have allowed it. I apologise."

Still silence. He was just about to speak again, when Evarne announced in tones of quiet conviction, seemingly to herself, "I must get away from this house at once—at once!" and walked towards the door as if about to suit the action to the words without any delay.

But Morris hurried over to prevent the fulfilment of this impulse.

"Believe me," he assured her, retaining his grasp of the door-handle, "there is some one who would rather that all the rest of us should slip over the fourth dimension than have you undertake the rÔle of vanishing lady. Darwin applies all round, remember, and to Tony's way of thinking you are the fittest in all the world."

A dangerous gleam darted into the girl's eyes, and she stamped her foot passionately.

"How dare you offer me such an insult? Haven't you done enough yet to make yourself hateful to me? Have you no shame whatsoever? Be silent, I tell you—be silent!"

He made a gesture of despair.

"Of all the unreasonable people! Now, why should listening to a simple statement of facts cause you to get into such a temper?"

"Why?—why, indeed! You can't see; oh dear no, it's quite beyond your comprehension, isn't it? Learn this, then: though you have made me a more degraded creature than I ever before realised, you haven't killed all my soul, neither shall you."

"Souls at this moment! Good gracious, my dear girl, I only wish I had made you a bit more practical. But there, I fear you're utterly incorrigible. Poor old Tony mayn't be quite your ideal knight, but do try to realise that while sugar-icing forms a charming coating for a cake, the cake is just as sustaining without it. Are you positively so blinded by silly sentimentality as to be really incapable of seeing any cause for congratulation in the lucky chance that has led him to take a fancy to you? A good-hearted fellow with plenty of money. What more can you want?"

Anger had found small place in the girl's breast while she was being made to realise the dread truth that her lover was finally weary of her and of her affection; nor had even lasting indignation awoken until he taunted her with the display of bitter grief that this very knowledge had evoked. When he thus persisted in what she could but deem the last of insults—this determination to regard her only as a light toy, to be tossed from one man to another—then the capacity for wild wrath that she derived from her violent low-born mother, and a long line of fiery-tempered maternal ancestors, showed itself in all its power.

Up to the present her own personal gentleness of spirit, aided by the trend of her education, and the affection by which she had always been encircled, had sufficed to keep even the girl herself in ignorance of the capacity that lay dormant in her blood for feeling and displaying wild fury. Now, in circumstances provocative of wrath such as had never yet occurred in the whole range of her limited experience, she became entirely her mother's daughter.

"If ever again I touch a farthing of such money may I fall down dead!" she cried wildly. "That's my only answer. Oh! It's the devil gives money to men of your stamp, so that you may with more certainty work out your own damnation."

"Do not be melodramatic," implored Morris, giving each word its full value to render it more impressive, while he shook his head, and screwed up his face in superior disdain. "Of course——"

"I don't want—I refuse, absolutely refuse to hear anything more you've got to say; so you may as well hold your tongue," interrupted Evarne fiercely. "Get out of the way; stand aside from the door; let me get out of this room."

But Morris did not move.

"Not so, you're far too excited. There's no knowing what you might do."

He made a great mistake in preventing her from finding the solitude she instinctively sought. His words and presence were unendurably exasperating at this juncture.

She sat down on a couch, and tapped the floor impatiently with the toe of her velvet slipper.

Morris tried again.

"If you could only persuade yourself to look at the matter clearly—" But he broke off abruptly. Evarne had merely raised her head and looked at him, but that was all-sufficient. "It's evidently no use talking sense to anyone so beside herself as you are now," he concluded lamely.

"No use, so let me pass."

She sprang to her feet, and came close to him. Her face was flushed, while her eyes seemed to fairly blaze with passion; every breath she drew was distinctly audible. It really spoke something for Morris's strength of mind that he stood his ground.

"Not until you're calmer," he insisted.

Her lips set themselves into a firm line, and for a moment she appeared to be contemplating the employment of physical force to gain her will, but apparently she thought better of it, for, quite suddenly sweeping over to the opposite side of the room, she turned her back on Morris and leant both elbows on the mantelpiece.

"You know that Tony——" he recommenced, somewhat unwisely; then changed his sentence: "If you would but believe that I am only considering your best advantage——"

"Believe you?—never again Liar! Abject liar!"

Morris was thoroughly aroused.

"Now, look here, what do you suppose it matters to me what you do now?" he demanded fiercely. "I could more than discharge all my obligations to you by a final cheque, and I don't want any further show of ingratitude if I give you also the benefit of my advice. I tell you, a young woman of your personal charms needs not only money but a protector. However, please yourself."

Evarne turned sharply, and again broke in upon him before the words were well out of his mouth.

"Do you want to drive me mad?" she shouted. "I hate you, I loathe you, I despise you! Oh, if some one would only protect me now from you, you coward!"

The veins stood up on the man's temples.

"It's difficult to see why you persist in going on like a fool, and trying to deceive me. I'm perfectly convinced that, whatever the price demanded you will no more be found living without luxuries in the future than you have in the past, so why indulge in these absurd airs and graces of outraged virtue?"

For a moment everything whirled before Evarne's eyes; then, incapable of remaining without action, she commenced to pace up and down the room. A little table on which stood photograph frames, a vase of lilac, and various similar knick-knacks, stood in her path. Without a moment's hesitation she flung it aside, scattering the dainty ornaments in all directions.

"It's foolish to be angry with you," said Morris, suddenly calming himself. "You are clearly not responsible for what you do or say. You must go to your room and lie down. Do you hear? I insist. It would serve you right if I did leave you to your own devices entirely, but you are so young and silly that for your father's sake I'm going to see your future settled somehow, whether you say 'thank you' or not. Now come."

"Don't you dare to touch me!" screamed the girl. "You've no right now to interfere with my life, and you shan't do it. How dare you speak of my father, when you've so brutally betrayed his trust? You've lied, and tricked, and ruined me. I suppose you can't help being so ignoble and contemptible that loyalty and faith are only objects of derision to you; but that you should be willing—anxious—to pass me on to a despicable rake—not so vile as yourself, but still vile—that I shall never forget and never forgive, and, if I can help it, God likewise shall never forgive."

"What a ridiculous position to take up! Do you really expect to be ever anything more than one upon a string of beads? You knew you hadn't been otherwise with me, and you never will be now with any other man—so you may as well make up your mind to it, and think yourself lucky if——"

The girl, distracted and infuriated, waited for no more. Snatching up a silver statuette she hurled it with all her force at her betrayer's head. Then for a time she knew nothing; all was a blank—devoid of memory—of thought—of consciousness of action. Quite suddenly she seemed to regain her senses—to awake to find herself alone—the carpet covered with fragments of broken glass, streams of water, disordered flowers, books, scattered ornaments, while she herself was throwing madly, fiercely, everything on which she could lay hands, smash against the closed door by which Morris had been standing.