Anne knew her power at last, and deliberately, for his sake, she had not used it. He had gone away. He would forget, of course--unless----Slowly she sank into her chair, and sat thinking. She thought through all her life. She thought of the never-ending days of childhood and youth, unlighted by any happiness, any hope; the dreary days which had killed at last even her dreams. She thought of Hugh and his wife in a distant colony, happy, regardless of her, unmindful, unless she wrote to them, of her very existence. She thought of the heart of despair which she had brought back to this very room six months ago, of the dumb certainty that life for her had been, was, and ever would be, empty of all gifts, of all delight. And then of the wonderful months that had just passed. Wonderful, because of all she had learnt of others--and of herself. She remembered the diffident shrinking creature, who for shyness could scarcely lift her eyes to the men she regarded with awe, as dwellers in another world, whether gods or devils she did not know. She could have smiled as she thought of them now. They were neither gods nor devils, but weak human beings like herself. Weaker than herself, since they were young, impressionable clay in the hands of the potter. And one of them loved her. She leant forward in her chair, and covered her face with her hands. A week ago, it had been an obscure penniless woman who had found courage to arrest an impending declaration of love. To-day, the same woman,--she was rich, her own mistress, independent, free. With a wondering sense of the simplicity of the matter, Anne saw herself at liberty to take a step the very existence of which, till to-night, she had not perceived. She sat immovable, staring into the fire, thinking. In the silence of the sleeping house she looked at facts face to face, and made her decision. Here was she, Anne Page, not only a rich woman and her own mistress, but practically alone in the world. Life had hitherto offered her nothing. Now if she had courage to take it, a great if brief happiness was within her reach. She loved, and was beloved. Too late, as she had thought. But was it after all too late? Again Anne reflected while the fire upon which her unseeing eyes were fixed, leapt and sang softly to itself. Not if she could find the further courage to buy her happiness at a great price. To take it while it lasted, and of her own accord relinquish it before it had ceased to be happiness. For as she thought and planned Anne saw clearly, as only a woman who is leaving her youth behind, can see clearly--without illusions, with only stern facts to guide her. René Dampierre was young. Naturally, inevitably, sooner or later, he would turn to youth for love, and she must not stand in his way. But because of this, could she not even for a little while know the joy which was every woman’s birthright?