far west of London--nothing
more than that.

In the afternoon, Eleanor set out to discover this address. It proved
to be a house in a decent suburban road. On asking for Mrs. Elgar, she
was led up to the second floor, and into a rather bare little
sitting-room. Here was Cecily, alone.

"I knew you would come soon," she said, looking with an earnest, but
not wholly sad, smile at her visitor. "I had very nearly gone to you,
but this was better. You understand why I am here?"

"I am afraid so, after your long silence."

"Don't let us get into low spirits about it," said Cecily, smiling
again. "All that is over; I can't make myself miserable any more, and
certainly don't wish any one to be so on my account. Come and sit
nearer the fire. What a black, crushing day!"

She looked out at the hopeless sky, and shook her head.

"You have lodgings here?" asked Eleanor, watching the girl with concern.

"Irene and her mother live here; they were able to take me in for the
present. He left me a month ago. This time he wrote and told me
plainly--said it was no use, that he wouldn't try to deceive me any
longer. He couldn't live as I wish him to, so he would have done with
pretences and leave me free. I waited there in my 'freedom' till the
other day; he might have come back, in spite of everything, you know.
But at last I wrote to an address he had given me, and told him I was
going to London--that I accepted his release, and that henceforth all
his claims upon me must be at end."

"Is he in Paris?"

"In the south of France, I believe. But that is nothing to me. What I
inherited from my aunt makes me independent; there is no need of any
arrangements about money, fortunately. I dare say he foresaw this when
he expressed a wish that I should keep this quite apart from our other
sources of income, and manage it myself."

Eleanor felt that the last word was said. There was no distress in
Cecily's voice or manner, nothing but the simplicity of a clear
decision, which seemed to carry with it hardly a regret.

"A tragedy can go no further than its fifth act," Cecily pursued. "I
have shed all my tears long since, exhausted all my indignation. You
can't think what an everyday affair it has become with me. I am afraid
that means that I am in a great measure demoralized by these
experiences. I can only hope that some day I shall recover my finer
feeling."

"You haven't seen Miriam?"

"No, and I don't know whether I can. There as