wo or three weeks and they've been burned up
altogether. But what hasn't been burned up is the fringe, as you call
it. That's only red-hot. It scorches me, and I can't sleep for the
torture of it. . . ." She stopped, and fronting me laid an appealing
touch on my arm. "Oh, Hilary, forgive me. I didn't mean to go on in this
wild way. I thought I had a better hold on myself."

"I don't see," said I, "why you shouldn't unburden your heart to one who
has proved himself to be a friend not only of yours, but of Adrian."

She released me, and with a wide gesture, swayed across the gravel path.
I stepped to her side and mechanically we walked on, a few paces, before
either of us spoke.

"I have told you," she said at last. "I have no heart to unburden. There
never was an Adrian."

"There was indeed," said I, warmly.

"Yours. Not mine."

"Have you no forgiveness for him, then?" I asked earnestly.

She halted again and looked at me and at the back of her great eyes
gleamed black ice.

"No," she said.

I went straight to bed-rock.

"He was the father of your dead child," said I.

Her small frame heaved and she looked away from me down the drive. "I
can only thank God that the child didn't live."

Barbara had told me something of the fear in which she seemed to hold
Adrian's memory. But I had not in the least realised it till now when I
heard the profession from her own lips. In fact, I know that she had
never yet spoken to Barbara with such passionate directness.

"You oughtn't to say such a thing, Doria," I said sternly.

"I am as God made me."

"Adrian loved you. He sinned for your sake--in order to get you."

She dismissed the argument with a gesture.

"You must have pity on him," I insisted, "for the unspeakable torment of
those months of barrenness, of abortive attempts at creation."

She was silent for a moment. Having reached the front gates we turned
and began to walk up the drive. Then she said:

"Yes, I do pity him. It's enough to tear one's brain out,--his when he
was alive--and mine now. The thought of it will freeze my soul for all
eternity. I can't tell you what I feel." She cast out her hands
imploringly to the autumn fields. "I pity him as I would pity some one
remote from me--a criminal whom I might have seen done to death by awful
tortures. It's a matter of the brain, not of the heart. No. I have all
the understanding. But I can't find the pardon."

"That will come," said I.

"In the nex