return, that
one evening she would hear his steps on the stairs, his knock on the
door, had needed only such a coincidence as the unexpected visit of
Devenish to stir it into vivid animation. Just so had the Rev. Samuel
Bishop hoped, in the fulfilment of his duties as chaplain, that one
day the rectorship of Cailsham would return to his possession; just
so had he been imbued with faith, the same as hers, when he had
shuddered at his narrow avoidance of sacrilege in the vestry of the
little church at Steynton. To him, at that moment, it would have been
as impossible to pour back the consecrated into the unconsecrated
wine, as it had been for Sally to lose assurance that Traill would
one day return to her.

But now it was different. The iron, in the sure grasp of the fingers
of Fate, was being torn out of her. She could feel it wrenching its
way from the very depths. Traill would never come back. It was not
so much because she had heard he was in love, that she realized it;
that--even then--her faith, in its ashes, repudiated. But when
Devenish had said--alluding to the faintest chance of his return--"I
shouldn't be here, I assure you, if there were," she had been made
conscious of Traill's tacit permission--unspoken no doubt--to
Devenish which had prompted his visit to her rooms.

But last and most poignant of all in the bitterness of this lesson
that she had learnt, was her understanding of the place she held in
the eyes of such men as Devenish. With those who knew of her life,
no friendship was possible. One relationship, one only could
exist--a relationship, at the thought of which her whole nature
shuddered in violent disgust.

Janet was right. Janet had seen things from their proper point of
view. As a trade she should have looked at it. As the leaving of one
master to labour in the service of another she should have weighed
its issue. Yet, even now, the cruelty of that outlook revolted her.
Had she viewed it thus, those three years of absolute happiness could
never have been and she could not even forego the memory of them.

But the knowledge that had come to her, brought decision with it.
She could stay no longer where she was. The thought of meeting just
those few people whom she knew, who knew her, in the streets, drove
the blood burning to her forehead. She must go away--away from
London--away from every chance incident that might fling back in her
face the tragedy of her existence. Away from all its asso