ned her when Beryl was
with her. Indeed, it had brought her a sense of relief. But now she
began to feel almost panic-stricken at the knowledge of what was before
her. And she began to wonder exactly how much Seymour understood of her
character, exactly how much he knew of her past. He must certainly know
a great deal, and perhaps suspect more than he knew. She had once been
almost explicit with him, on the terrible day when she had tried to make
up her mind to marry him, and had failed. And yet he might be surprised,
he might even be horrified when she told him. It was such an ugly
story, such a hideous story. And Seymour was full of natural rectitude.
Whatever he had done in his life, he must always have been incapable of
stooping down to the gutter, as she had stooped. She grew hot and then
cold at the thought of telling him. Perhaps he would not be able to bear
it. Perhaps even his love could not stand so much as that. If, after
she had told him, he looked at her with different eyes, if he changed
towards her! He would not want to change, but if he could not help it!

How awful that would be! Something deep down within her seemed to
founder at the mere thought of it. To lose Seymour! That would indeed be
the end of everything that made life worth living for her. She shuddered
on her sofa. Then she got up and stood before the blazing fire. But
still she felt cold. Surely she had acted imprudently when Beryl was
there. She had been carried away, had yielded to a sudden impulse. And
yet no! For she had stood with her back to Beryl for several minutes
before she had said she was going to tell Seymour. And through those
minutes she had been thinking hard. Yes; but she had not thought as she
was thinking now.

She began to feel desperate. It was nearly eleven o'clock. The time had
flown. Why had she asked Seymour to come to-night? She might just have
well have waited till to-morrow, have "slept on it." The night brings
counsel. Yet how could she break her promise to Beryl? It would be no
use debating, for she had promised.

The clock struck eleven.

Seymour might come now in a moment. On the other hand, he might not
reach home till midnight, or even later. It would really be a shame to
bring him out again at such an hour. She had been thoughtless when she
was at the telephone. And she was keeping his man up; Murgatroyd too.
That was scarcely fair. It would not matter if Seymour came now, but if
he did not get home til