am Altar was
imprisoned. Auriole clenched her hands tightly and bit her lip.
Somewhere behind those shuttered windows on the second floor the
inquisition was going forward. Three men to one. The relentless
interrogation. The same question repeated in a hundred ways and the
same unshakable refusal to give an answer. It was fitting indeed that
nature should cast a shadow over such doings.

"And I'm part of it," said Auriole.

Her thoughts flew back to her first meeting with Barraclough during the
war. She was nursing then at a hospital in Eastbourne. He had had a
bullet through the foot and was sent to the sea to recuperate. Strange
how instantly they had liked each other. His good nature, pluck,
generosity, were splendid assets in a friendship which went floundering
loveward after the fashion of those crazy days. There was the
fortnight they spent together in Town--perfectly respectable if a
little unorthodox. He had money to burn and she helped him burn it.
He had never asked more of her than companionship. Of course they
kissed each other--everyone did during the war--that was understood;
and he bought her presents too--ripping presents--and took her
everywhere--theatres, undreamed-of restaurants, dances. A glorious
time they had. He had denied her nothing except the offer of his name.
After all there was no particular reason why he should have asked her
to marry him--theirs was a mere partnership of gaiety added to which
she knew well enough that it would not have been practicable. They
were of a different mould. His blood was of the Counties and
hers--Lord knows where she came from--"the people" is the best covering
phrase to employ. She had been a mannequin in a Bond Street shop
before the war. But was it fair--was it just to engender a love of
luxury--to introduce her to all that her nature--vulgarised by
unfamiliarity--coveted most! If he had proposed likely enough she
would have been generous and refused him. But he didn't propose--he
took it for granted that they were no more to each other than the
moment dictated. There was a kind of long headed caution in his
diffidence with regard to the future. He was exigent too in his
demands and would not tolerate her being pleasant to anyone else. It
was her nature to be pleasant to all men and restraints were odious and
insulting. That was how the row came about. It took place on the
night before his return to Prance. It was her fault no doub