And then—­and then—­there was the picture in front of her of Josiah and the “second honeymoon.”

Thus while she sat there gazing at the man she passionately loved playing polo, she was silently suffering all the anguish of which a woman’s heart is capable.

The only possible way was to part from Hector forever—­to say the last good-bye before she should go, like a sheep, to the slaughter.

When she was once more the wife of Josiah she could never look upon his face again.

And if Hector had known the prospect that awaited her at Bessington Hall, it would have driven him—­already mad—­to frenzy.

The day wore on, and still Theodora’s fears kept her from allowing a tete-a-tete when he dismounted and joined them for tea.

But fate had determined otherwise.  And as the soft evening came several of the party walked down by the river—­which ran on the western side below the rose-gardens and the wood of firs—­to see Barbara’s many breeds of ducks and water-fowl.

Then Hector’s determination to be alone with her conquered for the time.  Theodora found herself strolling with him in a path of meeting willows, with a summer-house at the end, by the water’s bank.

They were quite separated from the others by now.  They, with affairs of their own to pursue, had spread in different directions.

And it was evening, and warm, and June.

There was a strange, weird silence between them, and both their hearts were beating to suffocation—­hers with the thought of the anguish of parting forever, his with the exaltation of the picture of parting no more.

They came to the little summer-house, and there they sat down and surveyed the scene.  The evening lights were all opalescent on the water, there was peace in the air and brilliant fresh green on the trees, and soft and liquid rose the nightingale’s note.  So at last Hector broke the silence.

“Darling,” he said, “I love you—­I love you so utterly this cannot go on.  I must have you for my own—­” and then, as she gasped, he continued in a torrent of passionate words.

He told her of his infinite love for her; of the happiness he would fill her life with; of his plan that they should go away together when she should leave Beechleigh; of the joy of their days; of the tender care he would take of her; and every and each sentence ended with a passionate avowal of his love and devotion.

Then a terrible temptation seized Theodora.  She had never even dreamed of this ending to the situation; and it would mean no second honeymoon of loathsome hours, but a glorious fulfilment of all possible joy.

For one moment the whole world seemed golden with happiness; but it was only of short duration.  The next instant she remembered Josiah and her given word.

No, happiness was not for her.  Death and sleep were all she could hope for; but she must not even hope for them.  She must do what was right, and be true to herself, advienne que pourra.  And perhaps some angel would give her oblivion or let her drink of Lethe, though she should never reach those waters beyond the rocks.