“You will come with me to-morrow?”

“I will.”

He sought her offered lips, and for a few instants their whispering in the shadow ceased.  Then he repeated rapidly the directions he had already given her.

“Put on your warmest cloak; it will be cold on the water.  Now I can say good-night.  Kiss me once more, and once more promise.”

She pressed her arms about him.

“I am giving you my life.  If I had more, I would give it.  Be faithful to me!”

“Then, you do doubt me?”

“Never!  But say it to-night, to give me strength.”

“I will be faithful to you whilst I have life.”

She issued from shadows into broad moonlight, looked once round, once at the gleaming crags, and passed again into gloom.

“I think it very unlikely,” Mrs. Lessingham was saying to Miriam, in her pleasantest voice of confidence, “that Mr. Mallard will insist on the whole term.”

“No doubt that will much depend on the next year,” Miriam replied, trying to seem impartial.

“No doubt whatever.  I am glad we came here.  They are both much quieter and more sensible.  In a few days I think your brother will have made up his mind.”

“I hope so.”

“Cecily lost her head a little at first, but I see that her influence is now in the sober direction, as one would have anticipated.  When Mr. Elgar has left us, no doubt Mr. Mallard will come over, and we shall have quiet talk, What an odd man he is!  How distinctly I could have foreseen his action in these circumstances!  And I know just how it will be, as soon as things have got into a regular course again.  Mr. Mallard hates disturbance and agitation.  Of course he has avoided seeing Cecily as yet; imagine his exasperated face if he became involved in a ’scene’!”

And Mrs. Lessingham laughed urbanely.

A short and troubled sleep at night’s heaviest; then long waiting for the first glimmer of dawn.  Row unreal the world seemed to her!  She tried to link this present morning with the former days, but her life had lost its continuity; the past was past in a sense she had never known; and as for the future, it was like gazing into darkness that throbbed and flashed.  It meant nothing to her to say that this was Capri—­that the blue waves and the wind of morning would presently bear her to Sorrento; the familiar had no longer a significance; her consciousness was but a point in space and eternity.  She had no regret of her undertaking, no fear of what lay before her, but a profound sadness, as though the burden of all mortal sorrows were laid upon her soul.

At seven o’clock she was ready.  A very few things that could be easily carried she would take with her; her cloak would hide them.  Now she must wait for the appointed moment.  It seemed to be very cold; she shivered.

A minute or two before the half-hour, she left her room silently.  On the stairs a servant passed her, and looked surprised in giving the “Buon giorno.”  She walked quickly through the garden, and was on the firm road.  At the place indicated stood Elgar beside the carriage, and without exchanging a word they took their seats.