She took off her things, and changed mechanically into an afternoon dress, her mind, like a hunted thing, running hither and thither all the time.

Presently she got up and locked the door.  She must think—­think—­by herself.

It would be quite easy to defy Roger—­quite easy to lie, and lie successfully, if only she was sure of herself, and her own will to carry things through.  Roger could prove nothing—­or that vulgar boy—­or anybody.  She had only to say, “I went to find Lucy Tanner, who was my friend—­she wasn’t there—­I was overtaken by the storm—­and Dick Tanner looked after me till I could get home.”

It was the most natural—­the most plausible story.  If Delane forced himself on George with any vile tale, Ellesborough would probably give him in charge for molesting his former wife.  There was absolutely nothing to fear, if she handled the thing in a bold, common-sense way, and told a consistent and clever lie.

And yet, she had weakly made appointments with both her tormentors!—­made it plain to them that she was afraid!  She called herself a coward, and a fool—­and then as she leant her head against the side of her bed, the tears ran down her face, and her heart cried out for Ellesborough.

“How can I go on lying to him—­now—­and all my life?” It was the same cry as before, but more intense, more passionate with every day’s living.  The need for lying had now doubled; yet her will could less and less steel itself to it, because of sheer love and remorse towards the man who loved her.

“He would forgive me.  I know he would—­I know he would!” she kept on murmuring to herself, while her eyes rained in the semi-darkness.

Yes, but it would change everything!  Their love—­his feeling towards her—­could never be the same again.  After Roger Delane—­Dick Tanner.  Why not another—­and another?  Would he not always be watching her, dreading some new discovery!  Suspecting her, even while he loved her?

No.  She must choke off Delane—­with money—­the only way.  And invent some story—­some bribe, too—­for that odious young man who had caught her unawares.

So again she hardened herself, despairingly.  It could not be allowed her—­the balm and luxury of confession!  It was too dangerous.  Her all was in it.

Meanwhile, the singing continued below.  Janet had struck up “Tipperary,” and the small flute-like voices of the girls, supported by her harsher one, mounted joyously through every crevice of the slightly-built house.

“It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
And my heart’s right there.”