“You hate to hear me talk of ‘gratitude.’  I have always meant by it less than you thought.  I was grateful for the money, not for anything else.  When you took me away, perhaps it was the unkindest thing you could have done.”

An unwonted vehemence shook her voice.  Her muscles were tense; she stood in an attitude of rebellious pride.

“If I had been true to myself then——­But it isn’t too late.  If I am to act honestly, I know very well what I must do.  I will take your advice.”

Hilliard could not doubt of her meaning.  He remembered his last talk with Patty.  This was a declaration he had not foreseen, and it affected him otherwise than he could have anticipated.

“My advice had nothing to do with that,” was his answer, as he read her face.  “But I shall say not a word against it.  I could respect you, at all events.”

“Yes, and I had rather have your respect than your love.”

With that, she left him.  He wished to pursue, but a physical languor held him motionless.  And when at length he sauntered from the place, it was with a sense of satisfaction at what had happened.  Let her carry out that purpose:  he faced it, preferred it.  Let her be lost to him in that way rather than any other.  It cut the knot, and left him with a memory of Eve that would not efface her dishonouring weakness.

Late at night, he walked about the streets near his home, debating with himself whether she would act as she spoke, or had only sought to frighten him with a threat.  And still he hoped that her resolve was sincere.  He could bear that conclusion of their story better than any other—­unless it were her death.  Better a thousand times than her marriage with Narramore.

In the morning, fatigue gave voice to conscience.  He had bidden her go, when, perchance, a word would have checked her.  Should he write, or even go to her straightway and retract what he had said?  His will prevailed, and he did nothing.

The night that followed plagued him with other misgivings.  It seemed more probable now that she had threatened what she would never have the courage to perform.  She meant it at the moment—­it declared a truth but an hour after she would listen to commonplace morality or prudence.  Narramore would write to her; she might, perhaps, see him again.  She would cling to the baser hope.

Might but the morrow bring him a letter from London!

It brought nothing; and day after day disappointed him.  More than a week passed:  he was ill with suspense, but could take no step for setting his mind at rest.  Then, as he sat one morning at his work in the architect’s office, there arrived a telegram addressed to him—­

“I must see you as soon as possible.  Be here before six.—­ Narramore.”

CHAPTER XXVI

“What the devil does this mean, Hilliard?”

If never before, the indolent man was now thoroughly aroused.  He had an open letter in his hand.  Hilliard, standing before him in a little office that smelt of ledgers and gum, and many other commercial things, knew that the letter must be from Eve, and savagely hoped that it was dated London.