“I don’t think—­Peter—­will ever forgive me,” went on Nan, with a quiet hopelessness in her voice that was infinitely touching.  “He would hardly speak to me.”

The coolly aloof man from whom she had parted an hour ago did not seem as though he could ever have loved her.  He had judged and condemned her as harshly as might a stranger.  He was a stranger—­this new, stonily indifferent Peter who had said very little but, in the few words he had spoken, had seemed to banish her out of his life and heart for ever.

“My dear”—­Kitty’s accustomed vitality rose to meet the occasion.  “He’ll forgive you some day, when he understands.  Probably only a woman could really understand what made you do it.  In any case, as far as Peter’s concerned, it was all so ghastly for him, coming when it did—­last night!  He must have felt as if the world were falling to pieces.”

“Last night?  Why should it have been worse last night?”

“Because he’d just had a cable from India—­about ten minutes before Sandy arrived—­telling him that his wife had gone mad, and asking him to fetch her home.”

“Gone mad?” Nan’s voice was hardly more than a whisper of horror.

“Yes.  He’d had a letter a day or two earlier warning him that things weren’t going right with her.  You know, she’s a frightfully restless, excitable woman, and after having sunstroke she was ordered to keep quiet and rest as much as possible until she was able to come home.  She entirely declined to do either—­rest, or come home.  She continued to ride and dance and amuse herself exactly as if there were nothing the matter.  Naturally, her brain became more and more excitable, and at the present moment she is practically mad.  No one can manage her.  So they’ve sent for Peter, and of course, like the angel he is, he goes. . . .  I suppose it will end in his playing keeper to a half-crazed neurasthenic for the rest of his natural life.  He’ll be far too tender-hearted to put her in a home of any kind, however expensive and luxurious.  He’s—­he’s too idealistic for this world, is Peter!” And Kitty’s voice broke a little.

Nan was silent.  Her hands lay folded on her knee, but the slender fingers worked incessantly.  Presently she got up very quietly and, without speaking, sought the sanctuary of her own room, where she could be alone.

She felt utterly crushed and despairing as she realised that just at the moment of Peter’s greatest need she had failed him—­spoiled the one thing that had counted in a life bare of happiness by robbing him of his faith and trust in the woman he loved.

If the Death-Angel had come at that moment and beckoned her to follow him, she would have gone gladly.  But Death is not so kind.  He does not come just because life has grown so hard and difficult to endure that we are asking for him.

Later on, when Nan came downstairs to dinner, she spoke and moved almost mechanically.  Only once did she show the least interest in anything that was said, and that was when Eliza remarked with relish: