She was amazed at the violence of her own emotions. Every glance exchanged by the married lovers, every word of love, every caress, stabbed her afresh. She had never before known what it was to feel acutely, and the suffering bewildered her. She was afraid of it. She wanted desperately to escape from herself, this new self which seemed all torn and bleeding. There was a hunted look in her eyes like that of a starving and desperate animal. She shuddered at them sometimes when they met her suddenly in the glass. One evening, unable to bear the sight of their endearments, she had gone early to her room, pleading a headache. She groped her way to the window, in the dark, and kneeling down beside it, looked out upon the sea. Every few minutes, a flash from the lighthouse on the cliffs momentarily illumined the still water. Far out, lights moved on the prow of passing ships. She could hear the wash and murmur of the waves, as they broke lazily on the pebbly shore. For a long time she knelt there immovable, the sound of the sea lulling her into a sort of painless trance, till the hum of voices below gradually filtered to her senses. The evening was so warm that Hugh and his wife were sitting in the garden. At first, numbed and half conscious in mind, she scarcely heeded the murmur of talk, but finally a sentence in a man’s voice reached her consciousness. “Nonsense, darling! She’s not at all bad looking. Well dressed, she’d be a fine figure of a woman.” “Why is she so dowdy then?” “She lives in the country, you see. I suppose there’s no one to dress for. And after all what does it matter?” There was a little laugh. “No. She’s too old now. She’ll never marry.” Again there was an incoherent murmur. “Yes I know, darling, it’s boring for you. But she’s had a dreary life, poor girl. I want you to be nice to her.” “I _am_ nice,” the answer came in a hurt voice, and was followed immediately by a rustle. “I know you are. You’re a darling. You’re the sweetest thing on this earth!” There was a sound of a kiss, and Anne drew back from the window with a quick movement. “Hush!” The exclamation came swiftly from Hugh. “Oh! it’s all right. Her light’s out. She’s asleep.” Anne closed the window noiselessly to shut out the voices to which she had listened without her will, scarcely conscious of how they had reached her. She threw herself on her bed in the dark. After all, as Hugh said, it didn’t matter. But she cried all night as though it did. In the journal which Miss Page held open on her knee, she saw the date of her return recorded. “_Came back to Fairholme Court, March 17th._” She remembered her old friend’s greeting, as she went to find her in the morning-room, where she was lying on the sofa. “Why, Anne! Sea air doesn’t suit you. You’ve got thin, my dear. You look quite ill. You mustn’t go away again.” “No,” she said quietly. “I will never go away again.”