Kent! She started, as a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks. She was going to Kent now, to live under the same roof with him once more, to see him daily, to take him more intimately than ever into her life. Until now she had not realised this coherently. Vague thoughts of him had passed through her mind, but she had been too dazed, too sickened, too much possessed by the overpowering longing for freedom, escape from the house of bondage, to connect him definitely with her immediate future. And in the unconscious sequence of ideas a little self-reproach came into her mind, bringing with it a sense of soothing. Why had she not thought of Kent at first, of the true, loyal friend and lover, on whom she could rely for strength and comfort? How could she have been so much wrapped up in herself and her wrongs as never to have given him a place in her plans? And then the tide of feeling ebbed back again, leaving her heart quite cold and sad. How could she meet him? How could she tell him? The eternal woman in her shrank from the confession. If he had been to her but a friend, it had been easy. But she loved him. Had not her heart sung within her that very morning, only a few hours before, at the grace and tenderness of her at last awakened love? And she fought, womanlike, against she scarce knew what, striving to disentwine herself like Laocoon from the coils that love and circumstance had wound, in subtle intricacy of convolution, about her heart. But for all her shrinking she longed for Kent. If only he could understand it all without her telling! If only he could come that evening and sit by her side and hold her hand in strong, mute sympathy! Well, she would conquer her woman's diffidence, and tell him bravely. She felt she owed him a little reparation. The inherent delight in putting itself in the wrong is perhaps one of the most elusive traits of a woman's nature. The cab stopped before the familiar side door. Mrs. Gurkins, standing beneath the awning of the shop between the stalls of cabbage and fruit, gave a gasp of bewilderment as she saw Clytie alight from the luggage-laden vehicle. She ran round through the connecting passage and opened the front door. “You are not coming to stay here, miss?” she asked. It was only in moments of calm reflection that she could bring herself to address Clytie more decorously as “ma'am.” “Yes, I am,” replied Clytie in her decisive way. “Can I have my old rooms?” “Of course, miss--but----” “Well, have my boxes taken up and get things straight for me, Mrs. Gurkins. You know what an erratic creature I am, don't you? I think I am going to stay a very long time. I'll go and see Miss Marchpane while you do all that is necessary. You'll forgive me for putting you to all this trouble?” “La, miss--ma'am, I'm that glad to have you back! But Miss Marchpane left early to-day--about an hour ago. You can go up to the sitting-room. I was cleaning it out only yesterday.”