cked more of business than
of love: that it was her nest, of which, of her love, she had made the
man free, was infamous. It was such treatment as she would not have
expected at the hands of a counter-jumper--a deserter--a satyr.
Possibly a satyr in a weak moment might have fallen so low. But
Anthony was not a satyr. And deserters are not, as a rule, recommended
for the D.S.O. To suggest that he was a counter-jumper was equally
ridiculous. He was a most attractive gallant gentleman. This made his
behaviour infinitely more discreditable. It was a sordid, demoralizing
business....

And that, gentlemen, is what a hot bath will do.

Now look on this picture.

Valerie lay as she had flung herself, face downward upon the bed. Save
that one satin slipper had fallen off, she was fully dressed. One bare
white arm pillowed her brow, covering her eyes--mercifully. Let us
touch that gleaming shoulder. See? It is cold as ice. That little
slipperless foot.... Cold as any stone. But then it is the month of
December, and she has lain so for two hours. Two hours of agony. She
can remember every look those steady grey eyes of Lyveden's have ever
given her, and in the last two hours she has remembered them all. Inch
by inch she has gone over the playground of their hearts: word by word
she has recited their conversations: she has gathered great posies of
dead blossoms, because they once smelled so sweet: she has trodden the
lanes of Memory to her most grievous wounding, because they are still
so dear....

Then there were other times, when Pride had her in a strait-jacket, and
the very thought of Anthony made her eyes blaze.

She had been walking herself out of one of these moods, and was
tramping rather wearily through the twilight and up the long drive,
when the cough of a motor-horn behind her made her start to one side.
The next moment a car flashed past....

It was the local doctor's Renault.

Valerie's heart stood still.

The next moment she was running like a deer....

The car beat her all ends up, and by the time she had reached the
steps, the front door was shut. She pealed the bell frantically....

To the footman who answered it--

"What's the matter?" she panted. "Who's ill?"

"Miss Alison, miss. I think it's a broken leg. She an' Mrs. Alison
'ad been to tea with 'er ladyship, an', as she was leavin', she----"

"Don't keep saying 'she,'" snapped Valerie. "Say 'Miss Alison.'
And--and bring