her temples. There were times when this girl felt a little afraid of
her own vehemence; which, but for the heritage of a strong will, and
her unfailing reliance on a Higher Judgment, might indeed have proved
disastrous for herself and others.

With controlled deliberation of movement, she drew a chair to the
hired dressing-table, which served as davenport, and began to write.

She set down date and address and the words, "My dear Theo,"--no more.
What was it she meant to say to him? That from to-day Evelyn must be
left to manage her affairs alone; that she could no longer be
responsible for her friend's doings, social or domestic; but that she
was willing to remain with her for the season, if he wished it? How
were such things to be worded? Was it even possible to say them at
all?

Her eye fell upon the envelope containing his last letter.
Mechanically she drew it out and read it through again very slowly. It
was a long letter, full of their mutual interests; of the music and
the Persian,--which she was now studying under his tuition;--of
Wyndham, Denvil, Mrs Olliver, and his men; very little about himself.
But it was written as simply and directly as he spoke,--the only form
of letter that annihilates space; and it was signed, "Always your
friend, Theo Desmond."

Before she reached the signature the fire had faded from her eyes. She
returned it to the envelope, took up the sheet on which three lines
were written, and tearing it across and across, dropped it into the
cane basket at her side.

"I can't do it," she murmured. "What right have I to let him call
himself my friend, if I fail him the first time things take an
unpleasant turn?"

She decided, nevertheless, that Evelyn might well be allowed to
realise her own helplessness a little before the reins were again
taken out of her hands. Then she went downstairs and out into the
golden evening, to cool her cheeks and quiet her pulses by half an
hour of communing with the imperturbable peace of the hills.

Evelyn, standing alone in the drawing-room, bewildered and helpless as
a starfish stranded by the tide, heard Honor's footsteps pass the door
and die away in the distance. An unreasoning fear seized her that she
might be going over to Mrs Conolly to stay there for good; and at the
thought a sob rose in her throat. Flinging aside her parasol, which
fell rattling to the floor, she sank into the nearest chair and buried
her face in the cushion.

She knew right