aghast at the suggestion. How could the letters of a strange man be
_more_ engrossing than those of the friend of years? Comparison between
them was ridiculous. The whole proposition was preposterous and
impossible. She would write at once, a firm and dignified rebuff.

Then suddenly, in the midst of her protests, Katrine caught sight of her
own image gazing at her from a mirror across the room--a transformed
image, youthful, glowing, incredibly alive. The eyes flashed, drooped
with a guilty shame, then flashed again bright and defiant. She looked,
and burst into a great peal of laughter; she threw out her arms with the
gesture of one pushing aside imprisoning chains, advanced with a
swaggering gait, and nodded defiance into the tell-tale glass.

"You're a fraud, Katrine Beverley; you're a fraud! It is all humbug and
pretence, and you _know_ that it is. His letters _would_ be more
interesting, just because he _is_ a man, who admires me, and
wants--_things_--he can never have! And I'm _not_ sorry, I'm _glad_.
If it wasn't for Martin, I'd say yes.--I'd say it at once, I _want_ to
say yes!"

Her face fell, she sighed despondently, then straightened herself,
reassured.

"At any rate there is the box. In common decency I must write to thank
him for the box!"

And meantime Martin was swinging along the country lanes, recalling the
morning's conversation, and pondering for the hundredth time how he
could best escape from the _impasse_ of his life.

"Any other woman would have understood--would have realised that I
_wanted_ to be alone, but the mischief of it is Katrine doesn't see, and
I can't be brute enough to tell her in so many words. If she could be
induced to take that Indian tour, we might start afresh after a year's
absence. Or she might marry out there. She's a handsome girl, and
would make a rattling wife,--to the right man! Poor old Katrine! I
hope I did not show her too plainly... The furniture will have an extra
polish this morning, and we shall have a superfine dinner, my favourite
dishes,--an ice, and Angels on Horseback,--for a ducat we'll have them,
and I shall buy her a box of chocolates on my way home... She tries her
best, poor girl. So do I, for that matter, and that is the devil of it.
Effort! Effort!"

The air seemed black with clouds; the pain which long custom had dulled
revived into throbbing life. He was racked with mental nausea: life
stretched before him level, unevent