ike a tall
cross in the cold north light, was swathed in a dust-sheet. Gillian's
heart misgave her. Was she too late? Had Michael--gone away?

A moment later a quick, resolute footstep reassured her. The door opened
and Michael himself came in. He paused on the threshold as he perceived
who his visitor was, then came forward and shook hands with his usual
grave courtesy. After that, he seemed to wait as though for some
explanation of her visit.

Gillian found herself nervously unready. All the little opening speeches
she had prepared for the interview deserted her suddenly, driven away by
her shocked realisation of the transformation which the few days since
she had last seen him had wrought in the man beside her.

His face was lined and worn. The grey eyes were sunken and burned with a
strange, bitter brilliance. Only the dogged, out-thrust jaw remained the
same as ever--obstinate and unconquerable. Twice she essayed to speak
and twice failed. The third time the words came stumblingly.

"Michael, what--what does it mean--all this?" She indicated the
holland-sheeted studio with a gesture.

"It means that I'm going away," he replied. "I'm packing now. I leave
England to-morrow."

"You mustn't go!"

The words broke from her imperatively, like a mandate.

He glanced at her quickly and into his eyes came a look of
comprehension.

"You're a good friend," he said quietly. "But I must go."

"No, no, you mustn't! Listen--"

"Nothing can alter my decision," he interrupted in a tone of absolute
finality. "Nothing you could say, Gillian--so don't say it."

"But I must!" she insisted. "Oh, Michael, I'm not going to pretend that
Magda hasn't been to blame--that it isn't all terrible! But if you saw
her--now--you'd _have_ to forgive her and love her again." She spoke
with a simple sincerity that was infinitely appealing.

"I've never ceased to love her," he replied, still in that quiet voice
of repressed determination.

"Then if you love, her, can't you forgive her? She's had everything
against her from the beginning, both temperament and upbringing, and
on top of that there's been the wild success she's had as a dancer. You
can't judge her by ordinary standards of conduct. You _can't_! It isn't
fair."

"I don't presume to judge her"--icily. "I simply say I can't marry her."

"If you could see her now, Michael----" Her voice shook a little. "It
hurts me to see Magda--like that. She's broken----"

"And my sister,