ibly,
nay probably, with Wyndham. She saw no escape from the dreadful
situation. And as a dark background to her thoughts there hung the
shadow of Hardy's return. She only realised it in these moods of
reaction that followed the exaltation of the last three weeks. And to
make matters worse, for the first time in her life she was dissatisfied
with herself. Not that she was in the least aware of the deterioration
of her character. She took no count of the endless little meannesses and
falsehoods which she was driven into by her position. Simple
straightforward action was impossible. This much was evident to her,
that whatever course she took now, she must end by forfeiting some one's
good opinion: Hardy's first--well, she could get over that; but Ted's?
Katherine's? Wyndham's?--if he came to know everything? It was there, in
that last possibility, that she suffered most.

Half-past six. She had given up Wyndham and her belief in psychical
prophecy, and was trying to find relief from unpleasant reflections in a
book, when Wyndham actually appeared. He came in with the confident
smile of the friend sure of a welcome at all hours.

"Forgive my calling at this unholy time. I knew if I came earlier I
should find you surrounded by an admiring crowd. I wanted to see you
alone."

"Quite right. I am always at home to friends."

They dropped into one of those trivial dialogues which were Audrey's
despair in her intercourse with Wyndham.

Suddenly his tone changed. He took up "London Legends."

"As you've already guessed, my egregious vanity brings me here. I don't
know whether you've had time to look at the thing----"

"I sat up to finish it last night."

"Indeed. What did you think of it?"

"Don't ask me. I didn't criticise--sympathy comes first."

"Excuse me, it doesn't. Criticism comes first with all of us. Sympathy
comes last of all--when we know the whole of life, and understand it."

"What would my poor little opinion be worth?"

"Everything. A really unbiassed judgment is the rarest thing in the
world, and there's always a charm about naive criticism."

"I couldn't put the book down. Can I say more?"

"Yes, of course you can say more. You can tell me which legend you
disliked least; you can criticise my hero's conduct, and find fault with
my heroine's manners; you can object to my plot, pick holes in my style.
No, thank goodness, you can't do that; but you can take exception to my
morality."

She sat silen