An English garden!  In the darkness of a November night he stood within the walls of an English garden; he heard a cry, saw the movement of a woman’s body, and knew that his life was in ruins.  The woman fled, but he followed her blindly; he sought for her in the dark.  He wanted to tell her that he had been but the instrument of Fate, that he was not to blame, that he needed compassion more than any other man living.  But she eluded him in the darkness, and presently he heard a key grind in a lock.  A friend had locked the door of his home against him in order that his wife might have time to escape from him.

Then he heard a husky voice say, “My friend, it will have to come.”  And, suddenly it came.

He broke down absolutely, threw himself on his face on the divan with his arms stretched out beyond his head, grasped the cushions and sobbed.  His body shook and twitched; his face was contorted; his soul writhed.  A storm that came from within him broke upon him.  He crashed into the abyss.  Down, down he went, till the last faint ray from above was utterly blotted out.  She whom he had loved so much sent him down, she who far away had given herself to God.  He felt her ruthless hands—­the hands of a good woman, the hands of a loving mother—­pressing him down.  Let her have her will.  He would go into the last darkness.  Then, perhaps, she would be more at ease; then, perhaps, she would know the true peace of God.  He would pay to the uttermost farthing both for himself and for her.

Outside, just hidden from him by the pavilion wall, Mrs. Clarke stood in the shadow of one of the cypresses, and listened.  The trip on the “Leyla” had served two purposes.  It was better so.  When a thing must be, the sooner it is over the better.  And she had waited for a very long time.  She drew her brows together as she thought of the long time she had waited.  Then she moved and walked away down the terrace.  She had heard enough.

She went to the far end of the terrace.  A wooden seat was placed there in the shadow of a plane tree.  She sat down on it, rested her pointed chin in the palm of her right hand, with her elbow on her knee, and remained motionless.  She was giving him time; time to weep away the past and the good woman who had ruined his life.  Even now she knew how to be patient.  In a way she pitied him.  If she had not had to be patient for such a long time she would have pitied him much more.  But he had often hurt her; and, as Lady Ingleton had said, she was by nature a cruel woman.  Nevertheless she pitied him for being, or for having been, so exclusive in love.  And she wondered at him not a little.

Lit-up caiques glided out on the bay far beneath her.  A band was playing on the quay.  She wished it would stop, and she glanced at a little watch which Aristide Dumeny had given her, and which was pinned among the dark blue folds of her gown.  But she could not see its face clearly, and she lit a match.  A quarter-past ten.  The band played till eleven.  She lit a cigarette and stared down the hill at the moving lights in the bay.