It was Kieff who had played the cards, had involved her in such difficulties as she had never before encountered, and then had left her perforce to extricate herself alone; to extricate herself—­or to pay the price.  She seemed to have been struggling against overwhelming odds ever since.  She had fought with all her strength to win back to the old freedom, but she had failed.  And in that dark hour she told herself that freedom was not for her.  She was destined to be a slave for the rest of her life.

The wild paroxysm of crying could not last.  Already she was beginning to be ashamed of her weakness.  And ere long she would have to face Burke.  The thought of that steady, probing look made her shrink in every fibre.  Was there anything that those shrewd eyes did not see?

What was that?  She started at a sound.  Surely he had not returned so soon!

For a second there was something very like panic at her heart.  Then, bracing herself, she lifted her head, and saw Guy.

He had entered by the sitting-room door and in his slippers she had not heard him till he was close to her.  He was already bending over her when she realized his presence.

She put up a quick hand.  “Oh, Guy!” she said with a gasp.

He caught and held it in swift response.  “My own girl!” he said.  “I heard you crying.  I was in my room dressing.  What’s it all about?”

She could not tell him, the anguish was still too near.  She bowed her head and sat in throbbing silence.

“Look here!” said Guy.  “Don’t!” He stooped lower over her, his dark face twitching.  “Don’t!” he said again.  “Life isn’t worth it.  Life’s too short.  Be happy, dear!  Be happy!”

He spoke a few words softly against her hair.  There was entreaty in their utterance.  It was as if he pleaded for his own self.

She made a little movement as if something had pierced her, and in a moment she found her voice.

“Life is so—­difficult,” she said, with a sob.

“You take it too hard,” he answered rapidly.  “You think too much of—­little things.  It isn’t the way to be happy.  What you ought to do is to grab the big things while you can, and chuck the little ones into the gutter.  Life’s nothing but a farce.  It isn’t meant to be taken—­really seriously.  It isn’t long enough for sacrifice.  I tell you, it isn’t long enough!”

There was something passionate in the reiterated declaration.  The clasp of his hand was feverish.  That strange vitality of his that had made him defy the death he had courted seemed to vibrate within him like a stretched wire.  His attitude was tense with it.  And a curious thrill went through her, as though there were electricity in his touch.

She could not argue the matter with him though every instinct told her he was wrong.  She was too overwrought to see things with an impartial eye.  She felt too tired greatly to care.