When he returned everything was going on as usual at the house, yet nothing was the same to him, nor could it ever be again. He did not speak of Doring to Miss Hill, but she herself went back to the subject, chiding him for going away. “I saw Mr. Doring,” he answered, curtly, “and didn’t like him. You may think my opinion of him is colored by jealousy, but I am sure it is not. I hope you will never marry him.” “Well, I have not yet decided to marry him,” she said. “If you have not given him up entirely it will end that way at last. You are merely temporizing with the situation, and it will master you.” “Probably,” she said, wearily, and then they spoke of it no more. * * * * * Not long after, Westfield went away. When he was gone she felt a sense of desolation new in her experience. He was so good a comrade. Why had he been so foolish as to leave? Could men and women never be good comrades--only lovers, or nothing? * * * * * The days went on apparently as though there had never been a Westfield, though the other members of the household thought Miss Hill was not quite like herself, that perhaps she was fonder of Westfield than she had believed herself to be, and regretted him. Brooks was strongly inclined to this opinion, though when he talked with his wife about it he drubbed Westfield soundly. “Blast the fool,” he said, “what could she do but let him go, even if she were fond of him? What woman not an idiot would think of marrying Westfield, who is simply a charming failure, a penniless, indifferent, intellectual tramp?” In truth they were half right in their surmises. The old content had vanished. She missed the intellectual sympathy of Westfield, and Doring kept her restless with his importunings. She read his letters by the light of her own integrity, and therefore saw not the rank selfishness of the writer, who was vain and dull, but persistent to a degree that made him formidable as a wooer. He had recourse to all the selfish arguments of little souls. He said he was so perturbed in mind that he could not get on in anything, consequently in danger of financial ruin, and hinted darkly at suicide. A crisis had come to her. Forces within and without were wrestling over her destiny. Unseen hands were pushing her. At times she determined to marry Doring at all risks, and thus settle the problem, but the decision did not bring peace, as decisions should. A sickening sense of imminent disaster followed, and she was at sea again. Weeks rolled into months, and the chaotic misery of her mind was making her look worn and ill. A day came at last in which the genius of her fate cast the die.