And Audrey yielded to the mastery she had scarcely felt of late.

The spirit helped to steady her, and at length she rose.

“I am going to my room, Eustace,” she said, not looking at him.  “I—­can’t go out to-night.  Perhaps you will make my excuses.”

He did not answer her, and she threw him a swift glance.  He was standing stiff and upright.  His face was stern and composed; it might have been a stone mask.

“What excuse am I to make?” he asked.

Her eyes widened.  The question was utterly unexpected.

“Why, the truth—­of course,” she said.  “Say that I have been upset by the news, that—­that—­I hadn’t the heart—­I couldn’t—­Eustace,”—­appealing suddenly, a tremor of indignation in her voice—­“you don’t seem to realise that he is one of my greatest friends.  Don’t you understand?”

“Yes,” he said—­“yes, I understand!”

And she marvelled at the coldness—­the deadly, concentrated coldness—­of his voice.

“All the same,” he went on, “I think you must make an effort to accompany me to the Bentleys’ to-night.  It might be thought unusual if I went alone.”

She stared at him in sudden, amazed anger.

“Eustace!” she exclaimed.  “How can you be so cruel, so cold-blooded, so—­so heartless?  How can you expect such a thing of me—­to sit at table and hear them all talking about it, and his chances discussed?  I couldn’t—­I couldn’t!”

He did not press the point.  Perhaps he realised that her nerves in their present condition would prove wholly unequal to such a strain.

“Very well,” he said quietly at length.  “I will send a note to excuse us both.”

“I don’t see why you should stay at home,” Audrey said, turning to the door.  “I would far rather be alone.”

He did not explain his motive, and she went out of his presence with a sensation of relief.  She had never fully realised before how wide the gulf between them had become.

She remained shut up in her room all the evening, eating nothing, face to face with the horror of young Devereux’s brief words.  It was the first time within her memory that death had approached her sheltered life, and she was shocked and frightened, as a child is frightened by the terrors of the dark.

Very late that night she crept into bed, dismissing her ayah, and lay there shivering and forlorn, thinking, thinking, of the cruel faces and flashing knives that Phil had awaked to see.  She dozed at last in her misery, only to wake again with a shriek of nightmare terror, and start up sobbing hysterically.

“Why, Audrey!” a quiet voice said, and she woke fully, to find her husband standing by her bed.

She turned to him impulsively, hiding her face against him, clinging to him with straining arms.  She could not utter a word, for an anguish of weeping overtook her.  And he was silent also, bending over her, his hand upon her head.