ht; but it
dazzled her like the sun shining through a fog.

Once, at the fiercest point of her temptation, she felt an impulse to
confession--that mysterious instinct which lies somewhere at the heart
of all humanity; she had wild thoughts of going to Katherine and telling
her all, asking her what she ought to do. Katherine was large-minded,
she would not blame her--much; perhaps she would tell her she ought not
to give Wyndham up, that she ought to think of him, to be ready to
sacrifice the world for his sake. Yes, Katherine was so "clever," she
would be a good judge; and Audrey would abide by her judgment.
Unhappily, when it came to the point, she was afraid of her
judgment--she had always been a little afraid of Katherine. Once she
even thought of going to Mr. Flaxman Reed, that "holy anachronism," as
she had once heard Wyndham call him. But his judgment was a foregone
conclusion; Mr. Flaxman Reed was not large-minded.

Once, too, a gleam of reason came to her. She loved dearly the
admiration and good opinion of her world; and she reflected that the
step she contemplated meant no congratulations, no wedding-dress, no
presents, and no callers. Wedding indeed! As she had read of a similar
case in "London Legends," it would be a "social funeral, with no flowers
by request." But these considerations had no weight after an evening
spent with cousin Bella. And though she played on her piano till the
lace butterflies on Miss Craven's cap fluttered again (why would cousin
Bella wear caps in defiance of the fashion?), it was no good. If she had
had a fine voice, she would have sung at the top of it; failing that
medium of expression, she longed to put her fingers in her own ears and
scream into cousin Bella's. And as they yawned in each other's faces,
and she realised that something like this might be the programme for an
indefinite time, she remembered how Langley had called her a
metaphysician and a moral philosopher. It was on statements like these,
apparently borne out by the fact of his friendship, that she based the
flattering fiction of her own intellectuality. Without that fiction
Audrey could not have supported life in the rare atmosphere she had
accustomed herself to breathe. The conclusion of it all was that, come
what might come, she could not give Langley up.

One afternoon she crossed the river for a walk in Battersea Park. It was
a warm spring, and down the long avenue the trees were tipped with the
flame of