ildness in the face and
saw it just as it was, and resolved once for all to dominate it for the
rest of her days. She was not such a fool as to think that she could
ever destroy it. No doubt it would always be there to trouble her,
perhaps often to torture her. But rule her, as it had ruled her in
the past, it never should again. Her resolve about that was hard, of a
rock-like quality.

She had done with a whole side of life, and it was the side for which
she had lived ever since she was a girl of sixteen. The renunciation was
tremendous, devastating almost. She thought of a landslide carrying away
villages, whole populations. How true had been the instinct which had
told her that she was drawing near to a climax in her life! Had ever a
woman before her been brought in a flash to such a cruel insight? It was
as if a tideless sea, by some horrible miracle, retreated, leaving naked
rocks which till that moment had never been seen by mortal eyes, hideous
and grotesque rocks covered with slime and ooze.

And she stood alone, staring at them.

She remembered the dinner in her house at which there had been the
discussion about happiness, and the desire of the old Anglo-Indian for
complete peace of mind. Could a woman gain that mysterious benefit by
giving up? Could such a thing ever be hers? She did not believe it. But
she knew all the torture of striving. In her renunciation she would at
least be able to rest, to rest in being frankly and openly what she was.
And she knew she was tired. She was very tired. Perhaps some of the "old
guard" were made of cast iron. But she was not.

The "old guard"! With the thought of that body of wonderful women came
a flood of memories. She remembered "The Hags' Hop." She saw Rocheouart
standing before her; Rupert Louth; other young men, all lively,
handsome, ardent, bursting with life and the wish to enjoy.

Was there ever a time when the human being could utterly forego the wish
to enjoy? To her there seemed to be hidden in desire seeds of eternity.
The struggle for her, then, was not yet over. Perhaps it would only
cease in the grave. And after? Sellingworth had often told her that
there was no hereafter. And at the time she had believed him. But she
was not sure now. For even the persistence of desire seemed to point to
something beyond. But she would not bother about that. She was held fast
enough in the present.

What would the "old guard" say of her, think of her, in a very short