of extreme nervous tension, follows on any effort of the
will. She seemed to have gone as far as her courage would carry her,
and she shrank more and more from the thought of Miss Painter's return,
since whatever information the latter brought would necessitate some
fresh decision. What should she say to Owen if she found him? What could
she say that should not betray the one thing she would give her life
to hide from him? "Give her life"--how the phrase derided her! It was a
gift she would not have bestowed on her worst enemy. She would not have
had Sophy Viner live the hours she was living now... She tried again
to look steadily and calmly at the picture that the image of the girl
evoked. She had an idea that she ought to accustom herself to its
contemplation. If life was like that, why the sooner one got used to it
the better...But no! Life was not like that. Her adventure was a hideous
accident. She dreaded above all the temptation to generalise from her
own case, to doubt the high things she had lived by and seek a cheap
solace in belittling what fate had refused her. There was such love as
she had dreamed, and she meant to go on believing in it, and cherishing
the thought that she was worthy of it. What had happened to her was
grotesque and mean and miserable; but she herself was none of these
things, and never, never would she make of herself the mock that fate
had made of her...

She could not, as yet, bear to think deliberately of Darrow; but she
kept on repeating to herself "By and bye that will come too." Even now
she was determined not to let his image be distorted by her suffering.
As soon as she could, she would try to single out for remembrance
the individual things she had liked in him before she had loved him
altogether. No "spiritual exercise" devised by the discipline of piety
could have been more torturing; but its very cruelty attracted her. She
wanted to wear herself out with new pains...

XXXI

The sound of Miss Painter's latch-key made her start. She was still a
bundle of quivering fears to whom each coming moment seemed a menace.

There was a slight interval, and a sound of voices in the hall; then
Miss Painter's vigorous hand was on the door.

Anna stood up as she came in. "You've found him?"

"I've found Sophy."

"And Owen?--has she seen him? Is he here?"

"SHE'S here: in the hall. She wants to speak to you."

"Here--NOW?" Anna found no voice for more.

"She drove back with