imself so much for her sake.

She wanted to be alone, and, as if divining her thought, Lady Tynemouth
embraced her, and a moment later there was no sound in the room save
the ticking of the clock and the crackle of the fire.

How silent it was! The world seemed very far away. Peace seemed to have
taken possession of the place, and Jasmine's stillness as she sat by
the fire staring into the embers was a part of it. So lost was she that
she was not conscious of an opening door and of a footstep. She was
roused by a low voice.

"Jasmine!"

She did not start. It was as though there had come a call, for which
she had waited long, and she appeared to respond slowly to it, as one
would to a summons to the scaffold. There was no outward agitation now,
there was only a cold stillness which seemed little to belong to the
dainty figure which had ever been more like a decoration than a living
utility in the scheme of things. The crisis had come which she had
dreaded yet invited--that talk which they two must have before they
went their different ways. She had never looked Rudyard in the eyes
direct since the day when Adrian Fellowes died. They had met, but never
quite alone; always with some one present, either the servants or some
other. Now they were face to face.

On Rudyard's lips was a faint smile, but it lacked the old bonhomie
which was part of his natural equipment; and there were still sharp,
haggard traces of the agitation which had accompanied the expulsion of
Krool.

For an instant the idea possessed her that she would tell him
everything there was to tell, and face the consequences, no matter what
they might be. It was not in her nature to do things by halves, and
since catastrophe was come, her will was to drink the whole cup to the
dregs. She did not want to spare herself. Behind it all lay something
of that terrible wilfulness which had controlled her life so far. It
was the unlovely soul of a great pride. She did not want to be forgiven
for anything. She did not want to be condoned. There was a spirit of
defiance which refused to accept favours, preferring punishment to the
pity or the pardon which stooped to make it easier for her. It was a
dangerous pride, and in the mood of it she might throw away everything,
with an abandonment and recklessness only known to such passionate
natures.

The mood came on her all at once as she stood and looked at Rudyard.
She read, or she thought she read in his eyes, in h