and her married happiness. May Eversley had
once said to her: "Sit down and see, without any exaggeration or false
colouring, what you've got. Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you
imagine that you've got but haven't. Take away ruthlessly everything
that you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident of
securing--See what's happened to you in the past--Take away ruthlessly
any sentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quite
resolutely from your ugly mistakes."

Long ago she had written this down--now was the first necessity for
applying it.

The doctrine of Truth--Truth to Oneself, the one thing that mattered.
She knew that the pursuit of Truth was to her, and to every rebel
against the Beaminsters, the restive Tiger. In marrying Roddy she had
been untrue to herself. In writing to Breton she would be true to
herself but untrue to Roddy. She was fond of Roddy although she did not
love him, nor did he, really, love her. The anxiety on both their parts
to avoid hurting one another was proof enough of that, she thought.

There then was the whole situation. As she felt Jacob's warm head
against her foot a great agitation of loneliness and dismay and
helplessness swept over her.

Tears were in her throat and eyes--Then with a strong disdain she pushed
it all from her. She was growing morbid, losing her sense of humour and
proportion. Here in the house there was Nita Raseley staying; in the
country there were people to be called upon, to be invited, to be
interested in, there was Roddy, a perfect husband.

She strangled that other Rachel, there in her room. "Now you're dead,"
she felt, and seemed to fling a lifeless, crumpled figure out into the
snow--

She looked at herself in the glass.

"You're not Rachel Beaminster now--you're Rachel Seddon. Act accordingly
and don't whine--" She washed her face and brushed her hair, and combed
Jacob's hair out of his eyes, and then, determined to be sensible and
cheerful and civilized, went down to tea.

II

The room called the Library was the pleasantest room in the house; an
old, long, low-ceilinged room with windows that stretched from floor to
ceiling, with a large stone open fireplace and book-cases running from
end to end and old sporting prints above them.

Before the great fireplace the tea was waiting and there also was Nita
Raseley, very charming and fresh and pink in the face and golden in the
hair. It was strange that Nita Raseley sh