ow she knew this was not in human nature. Sooner or later fate would
land them in some situation of temptation too strong for either to
resist--and then--and then--She refused to face that picture. Only she
writhed as she lay there and buried her face in the fine pillows. She
did not permit herself any day-dreams of what might have been. Romauld
himself, as he took his vows, never fought harder to regain his soul
from the keeping of Claremonde than did Theodora to suppress her love
for Hector Bracondale. Towards morning, worn out with fatigue, she fell
asleep, and in her dreams, released from the control of her will, she
spent moments of passionate bliss in his arms, only to wake and find she
must face again the terrible reality. And cruellest thought of all was
the thought of Josiah.

She had so much common-sense she realized the position exactly about
him. She had not married him under any false impression. There had been
no question of love--she had frankly been bought, and had as frankly
detested him. But his illness and suffering had appealed to her tender
heart--and afterwards his generosity. He was not unselfish, but,
according to his lights, he heaped her with kindness. He could not help
being common and ridiculous. And he had paid with solid gold for her,
gold to make papa comfortable and happy, and she must fulfil her part of
the bargain and remain a faithful wife at all costs.

This visit must be the last time she should meet her love. She must tell
him, implore him--he who was free and master of his life; he must go
away, must promise not to follow her, must help her to do what was right
and just. She had no sentimental feeling of personal wickedness now. How
could it be wicked to love--to love truly and tenderly? She had not
sought love; he had come upon her. It would be wicked to give way to her
feelings, to take Hector for a lover; but she had no sense of being a
wicked woman as things were, any more than if she had badly burned her
hand and was suffering deeply from the wound; she would have considered
herself wicked for having had the mischance thus to injure herself. She
was intensely unhappy, and she was going to try and do what was right.
That was all. And God and those kind angels who steered the barks beyond
the rocks would perhaps help her.

Hector for his part, had retired to rest boiling with passion and rage,
the subtle, odious insinuations of Mildred ringing in his ears. The
remembrance of t