eproach you for deserting me. Life is too brief for
reproaches--when one longs to fill it with pleasanter things. But
be kind to me! Give me the opportunity of finishing that broken
sentence. I shall smoke a cigar on the terrace at eleven to-night.
If you are generous, wrap yourself up, and keep me company for ten
minutes. I shall wait--and hope.

"DEEREHURST."

She read to the end, and stood for a space staring at the large,
straggling writing; at last, as if suddenly imbued with the power of
action, she tore the letter across--tearing and retearing it into
little strips; then, throwing the fragments on the ground, she turned
and fled out of the room.

Milbanke's bedroom was on the same floor as her own, though separated
from it by half the length of the corridor. Leaving her own apartment,
she hurried towards it; and pausing outside the door, knocked softly
and insistently. A delay followed her imperative summons; then
Milbanke's voice came faint and nervous, demanding the intruder's name.

She answered; and a moment later the door was opened with a confused
sound of shooting bolts.

Milbanke's appearance was slightly grotesque, as the opened door
disclosed him, silhouetted against the lighted room. He was garbed in a
loose dressing-gown; his scanty hair was disarranged; and there was an
expression of alarm on his puckered face. But for once Clodagh was
blind to these things. With a swift movement she entered the room, and
closing the door, stood leaning against it.

"James," she said breathlessly, "you finished your business with Mr.
Barnard to-day, didn't you?"

Milbanke, suddenly conscious of her white face, began to stammer.

"Clodagh! my dear--my dear----"

But Clodagh waved his anxiety aside.

"Tell me!" she said. "It's finished, isn't it?"

"Yes!--yes! But, my dear----"

She threw out her hands in a sudden, vehement gesture.

"Then take me away!" she cried--"take me away! Let us go in the
morning, by the very first train--before any one is up."

Milbanke paled.

"But, my dear," he said helplessly, "I thought--I believed----"

Clodagh turned to him again.

"So did I!" she cried--"so did I! I thought I loved it. I thought I
loved it all--the music and the gaiety and--and the people. But I
don't. I hate it!--I hate it!--I hate it!"

In a strangled sob, her voice gave way; and, with it, her strength and
her self-control. She took a few steps forward; then, like a mecha