of the little town, she turned the other way and walked slowly, past the lights of the village, out on the quiet road that led down to a bridge over the brawling Vieze. The night was cool, and a current of colder air, swept down by the stream, made her shiver slightly as she wrapped her cloak about her and leaned to look down at the foaming water. She was extremely tired, but nervous restlessness and melancholy dominated her physical fatigue. That was the impression the day had left with her—a mordant melancholy—and she had seen the same thing in Crayven's face that evening. What had happened, after all, and why was it that suddenly all had fallen to ruins in their relation to one another? Why was it that at a touch that world of which he was the centre, and which had for a moment beckoned to her, had crumbled away, vanished like a mirage? It was gone, and she felt desolately ennuyée.
Hard reality stared her in the face—the sense of her bondage. She was not free for a moment, she could never love Crayven nor anyone else. Something far deeper than convention, which she would willingly have thrown overboard, bound her, body and soul. She liked Crayven thoroughly, she felt affection for him, and in her rebellion she wished passionately that she could care more for him or could be deceived into thinking she cared—but she could not. All
