Instantly subdued by amazement, she stared aghast at the surrounding destruction. At the dread realisation that she was beholding the work of her own hands, a shrinking horror—a terrible fear of herself—filled her breast. Why, in very sooth, this looked like the doings of a madwoman, and she had known nothing of what she was about. What could it portend? Trembling violently, she leant against the wall, scarcely able to stand, her hands pressing her cheeks, her eyes dilated and glancing around as if in apprehension.

How blessed just at that moment would have been the care of her mother—or, indeed, of any tender woman. But she was quite alone—or worse than that, surrounded only by those who had reduced her to this state, and by servants filled with curiosity.

After an interval of quietness the door was cautiously opened a trifle, a head was popped in and rapidly withdrawn. Evarne had not time to notice to whom it belonged, but she immediately regained sufficient strength to walk across the room. She could not endure to be thus made into a spectacle, neither could she longer gaze upon this dire material destruction that typified, only too cruelly, the fate that had befallen her love, her happiness and her future.

As she opened the door and appeared on the threshold, there was a general sense of rustling, of rapid footsteps, of stifled exclamations in the corridor and the surrounding rooms, as various figures hastened to efface themselves. But the girl, heeding nothing, made directly for her own apartment and securely locked herself therein.

Then, after a moment's reflection on what had passed that hour, she again collapsed beneath alternate transports of anger and heart-tearing grief. Now she would be sweeping wildly to and fro, with clenched fists and hurried strides, her body swaying and shaking as she walked; next, exhausted, flinging herself upon bed or floor, torn with sobs, drowned by tears, only to spring to her feet again as stress of anguish goaded her to action.

Her feelings towards Morris were variable as the wind. At times the memory of his brutal insults, his treachery and faithlessness, were uppermost in her thoughts; then she felt for him only the most intense and passionate hatred, bitterly grudging every hour of happiness to which she had contributed in the past; praying wildly that the future might hold for him agony of spirit equal to that into which he had so ruthlessly plunged her. Then, again, a flood of her old devotion would rise above all else. "Morris, Morris, come back to me! Oh, my darling, my darling, how can I live without you?" was her sobbing appeal; but there was none to answer.

For the most part she sorrowed in silence. She was aware that whispered conversations were in progress outside her door, and more than once the handle was turned cautiously. Later in the afternoon, Bianca, who was genuinely attached to her beautiful young mistress, ventured to tap again and again, at the same time imploring, in a tremulous voice, to be allowed to do something—anything. But Evarne turned a deaf ear to all.

Time passed, and the first violence of her emotion burned itself out. Then she became conscious that she felt sick and ill, and that her head ached to distraction. Letting down her thick black hair, she threw herself once again upon her tumbled bed, and made a first serious and protracted effort to remain absolutely quiet and calm. Long she lay there, staring at vacancy, sighing piteously at intervals, until as the evening twilight crept into the room, the lids drooped over the wild eyes and the exhausted girl sank into slumber.

When she awoke, it was night. The room was shrouded in darkness, and perfect silence reigned. As recollection returned she despairingly pressed her hands to her head, but firmly forbade any further lapse from self-control. The determination she had arrived at during the weary time she had lain passive before falling asleep was now to be put into action. When the traitors who were beneath that roof awoke in the morning, they should find their victim gone. She shrank from again meeting either of the Belmonts; Morris it was better she should not see. One of the trains that left Paris in the grey of the morning should bear her away—far beyond the reach of these, her enemies.

Her thoughts turned towards London. She was not exactly a feminine Dick Whittington; at the same time the great metropolis certainly seemed to offer the greatest hope for one who had her own way to make.

Flashing on the light, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter-past three. She rose up, and drawing the curtains over the windows, set about packing the few things it was imperative she should take. At first she seemed to possess neither bag nor box of a suitable size, and, gazing helplessly around the room, realised how weak and nervous, and, above all, how curiously dull and stupid, she was feeling. With an impatient effort she pulled herself together, and concentrated all her wits upon this question of a box. Finally, she thought of her dressing-bag. By removing most of the fittings she was able to crush into it all she had sorted out to pack.

Then, slipping off the embroidered muslin morning-gown she still wore, she sought for her plainest and most serviceable outdoor costume. Evarne's taste in dress in no ways inclined to simplicity. She gloried in frills and furbelows, dainty details, falling lace and fashionably cut skirts. Even her tailor-built gowns were not really severe. The fact that a brown face-cloth was made with a short skirt prompted her choice. It was elaborately stitched and strapped, but demure in tone, its only contrasting colour being a touch of delicate rose-pink—chosen by Morris himself to match the exquisite tint of her cheeks.

She took no ornaments, but drew from a corner in her jewel-box a small enamel watch, the last gift of her father. With a stifled sigh she wound it up, and, shaking it a little to make it recommence its long-abandoned duties, pinned it on her dress, while she laid the yet tinier bejewelled toy that had superseded it back into the case.

She would scornfully leave behind every ornament that had belonged to brighter days; Morris would find them all and perhaps be a bit sorry! But money she must have, and she looked anxiously into her purse. It contained but a couple of napoleons and some silver. There were four more gold pieces in her desk; her velvet bag with the turquoises contained only two. The embroidered bag, bought to match her latest green costume, contributed three, while a few stray francs lay on the dressing-table. She gathered them all into her lap and counted them. Only a little over twelve napoleons altogether. It was alarmingly little, but it would have to suffice. This done, she again studied the hour. It was not yet four. She had no idea when the earliest train set out, but felt convinced that it could not start so matutinally.

It was nearly sixteen hours since she had last tasted food, but she was not at all conscious of hunger. She was in a strangely numbed state of mind. Beyond an impatience to be once fairly off, she seemed unable to care for aught else. Nothing mattered! Nothing ever could matter now! Still, the sight of a plate of fruit reminded her of her long fast, and she half-peeled a banana, but even as she raised it to her lips, a sudden repugnance at the idea of eating anything further beneath this roof, caused her to put it down untasted.

Ready even to her hat and gloves, she sank into an armchair to wait an hour or so before venturing forth. Not until she sat there, gazing with half-unseeing eyes around the delicate room, did she begin to grasp the full significance of the complete change that had so suddenly taken place in her circumstances.

Not only was her path in life to lie apart from Morris Kenyon's for evermore, but she was abruptly and unexpectedly plunged into the direst poverty. She had no hope, even remotely, of a reconciliation with her onetime lover, but she felt curiously calm and indifferent now. Then, although she knew well enough that poverty, with all its shifts, deprivations and unpleasantnesses would be hateful to her—she could not feel really concerned at the prospect. Nothing mattered—nothing ever could matter again! Everything was finished!

She was without the least idea of what she could possibly do to earn an honest livelihood. As far as went that capacity, she was every whit as ill-placed as when her father died. True, she had been studying art, more or less seriously, for the last three years, but no one knew better than herself how futile would be any attempt to earn money by this means.

What then? The effort to think was painful. What had come over her? Somehow she seemed incapable of even remembering trades or professions, to see if she could not manage to fulfil the necessary qualifications.

What did other young women do? Oh! of course, they were governesses, or children's nurses, or companions to invalids or old ladies, or—or—that sort of thing! But posts such as these surely required some capacity, and above all, a good reputation. She was, then, in truth, worse off than when she had first left Heatherington with Morris, so confident, so full of hopes for the future.

What were girls allowed to do without their miserable past existences being scrutinised? How about telephone girls and those who served in shops of one sort and another, those who were attendants in restaurants? Those who—who—well! She couldn't think of anything else just then; but there was clearly quite a choice of honest ways of grubbing up a livelihood—if one must live at all! Without exception, all appeared absolutely hateful. Viewed in anticipation, it seemed as if she might as well be dead at once, as devote all the days of one week to earning just enough to keep herself alive the next week, so that she might work through that, in order to be able to live the next seven days, and so on, and so on, with cheap clothes, poor food, scarce and low-class diversions, until old age overtook her—and then—what?

She passed through a moment of positive fear and repulsion, and instinctively her thoughts turned to Tony. After all, was she not rushing into a battle in which she must fall conquered. She could please men—that she knew well—but could she do anything else in life? She was so accustomed to wealth and ease and comfort now. What could she do without it? Would the time ever come when she would despairingly view this hour, when she wilfully abandoned what certainly appeared the flowery track through life, with its luxury, elegance, leisure for higher pursuits, its surroundings of grace and beauty that she appreciated so fully, and that only money—ill-gotten or otherwise—can procure?

But the pride and purity of the spirit forbade any real faltering in her resolve. Thousands of other girls lived—contentedly enough she hoped and supposed—upon the market value of their poor little capacities. Upon what grounds was she to be held different? Young and strong, why should not she work as well as others? She felt she ought to be ashamed of herself.

She shut her eyes so that she should no longer see the tempting wealth and elegance she was abandoning. Coloured spirals seemed to whirl in the darkness, and the ensuing giddiness reminded her of her smelling-salts. She slipped the bottle into her hand-bag, then resolved not to sit down again, but to go. She had never before taken a railway journey alone, and must allow ample time for contingencies. It was getting on for five o'clock. The time was ripe.

She crept from her room, and very softly, with many a pause to listen, proceeded to unfasten all hindering chains and locks. But no sound was heard within the sleeping flat, and undisturbed she gained the outer air.

Morris lay wrapped in slumber, all unconscious that the child he had received at her dying father's hands, innocent and wholly dependent on his honour, was now stealing forth homeless into the chill morning, broken-hearted, with a sullied story, and but a few pounds between herself and utter destitution. Nor, had he known, would it have caused him any serious pangs of remorse. The pride of spirit, the refinement of sentiment, that forbade her to take away any of the valuable gifts he had lavished upon her, was totally beyond his comprehension. He could see that it was a pretty enough conceit in theory, perchance, but such a piece of high-faluting foolishness put into practice was, to his mind, quite sufficient to deprive her of the sympathy of all rational beings. In some peculiar manner the fact that any immediate pecuniary difficulties would be entirely of her own making, was in his mind all-sufficient to absolve him from entire blame in the whole affair.

It was a quarter to six when Evarne arrived at the Gare St. Lazare, and learned that the first train for Dieppe started in five minutes. Hurrying to the booking-office, she ordered a first single, then contradicted herself, asking for a second-class ticket. It was so difficult to have to remember to economise.

The slow train, stopping at every station, took six hours to cover the ground, but Evarne felt no impatience. The steamer did not leave until half-past one, and until then one place was as satisfactory as any other. Indeed, it was even restful to sit quietly in a corner, and not have to force her numbed brain to think and plan.

About nine o'clock the train stopped at a station, where she bought a cup of coffee and a roll. As she sipped and nibbled she reflected that at a corresponding hour on the previous morning she had eaten just such another little premier dÉjeuner. How remote then appeared the prospect of her very next similar meal being taken thus—parted from Morris for ever, dazed and broken-hearted, bound in solitude and fear for another land. "After all, life ought to be somewhat interesting, for it is certainly unexpected," she thought, with a grim, mirthless little smile.

The Channel being on its best behaviour, she escaped the additional trials of illness, but none the less, on arriving at Newhaven, she felt incapable of further effort, and resolved to put up there for the night. The day being Sunday made a good excuse for this feebleness. It really would be most undesirable to arrive in London on the Sabbath evening. She turned with relief into the nearest hotel, and went straight to bed.

She slept; she lay awake; she trembled beneath evil dreams; she shed tears again. The long weary night passed somehow, but left her haggard-eyed and unrefreshed. A maid brought breakfast to her bedside, but Evarne turned with repugnance from the stolid bacon and overdone poached eggs, and it was after a mere pretence of a meal that she arose, paid her bill, and took her seat in the Victoria train.