but that it must be for the last time.  This was the way out of her difficulty, and she turned over in her bed, feeling she might now get to sleep.  But instead of sleep there began the very words of this last interview, and her brain teemed with different plans for escape from her lover.  She saw herself on ocean steamers, in desert isles, and riding wild horses through mountain passes.  Barred doors, changes of name, all means were passed and reviewed; each was in turn dismissed, and the darkness about her bed was like a flame.  There was no doubt that she was doomed to another night of insomnia.  The bell of the French clock struck three, and, quite exhausted, she got up and walked about the room.  “In another hour I shall hear the screech of the sparrow on the window-sill, and may lie awake till Merat comes to call me.”  She lay down, folded her arms, closed her eyes and began to count the sheep as they came through the gate.  But thoughts of Owen began to loom up, and in spite of her efforts to repress them, they grew more and more distinct.  The clock struck four, and soon after it seemed to her that the darkness was lightening.  For a long while she did not dare to open her eyes.  At last she had to open them, and the grey-blue light was indescribably mournful.  Again her life seemed small, black and evil.  She jumped out of bed, passed her arms into a tea-gown, and paced the room.  She must see Owen.  She must tell him the truth.  Once he knew the truth he would not care for her, and that would make the parting easier for both.  She did not believe that this was so, but she had to believe something, and she went down to the drawing-room and wrote—­

“DEAR OWEN—­You may come and see me to-morrow if you care to.  I am afraid that your visit will not be a pleasant one.  I don’t think I could be an agreeable companion to anyone at present, but I cannot send you away without explaining why.  However painful that explanation may be to you, there is at all events this to be said, that it will be doubly painful to me.  I am not, dear Owen, ungrateful; that you should think me so is the hardest punishment of all, and I am sorry I have not made you happier.  I know other women don’t feel as I do, but I can’t change myself.  I feel dreadfully hypocritical writing in this strain.  I, less than anyone have a right to do so, especially now.  But you will try to understand.  You know that I am not a hypocrite at heart.  I am determined to tell you all, and you will then see that no course is open to me but to send you away.  Even if you were to promise that we should be friends we must not see each other, but I don’t think that you would care to see me on those terms.  I should have stopped you yesterday when you took my hand, when you kissed me, but I was weak and cowardly.  Somehow I could not bring myself to tell you the truth.  I shall expect you in the afternoon, and will tell you all.  I am punishing myself as well as you.  So please don’t try to make things more difficult than they are.—­Yours very sincerely, EVELYN INNES.”