"Never mind that. Yes, I remember perfectly. Has he been persecuting you again?" "Ye-yes. Well, no. I haven't seen him for ages, but I live in dread of seeing him every day. I know, sooner or later, he will come." She paused. "I wonder if I really could tell you everything." "Please do, or tell me as much as you care to. I'd like to help you if you would let me." She went on in a low voice, rather suggestive, Wyndham thought, of the confessional: "I was engaged to him once--long ago--he forced me into it. It began when we were children. He always made me do everything he wanted. Then--he went away immediately after--for a year. When he came back--I don't know how it was--I suppose it was because he had been away so long--but I was stronger. He seemed to have lost his hold over me, and I--I broke it off." She looked away from Wyndham as she spoke. He wondered, "Is she acting all the time? If so, how admirably she does it! She must be a cleverer woman than I thought. But she isn't a clever woman. Therefore----" But Audrey went on before he could draw a conclusion. "But I know some day he will come back and make it begin all over again, and I shall have no power. And the thought of it is horrible!" There was no mistaking the passion in her voice this time. He said to himself, "This is nature," and he felt the same cold shiver of sympathy that sometimes ran through him at the performance of some splendid actress. But before he could presume to sympathise he must judge. "Do you mind telling me one thing? Had you any graver reasons for breaking it off than what you have told me?" "Yes. He drinks." "Brute! That's enough. But--supposing he didn't drink?" "It would make no difference. I never cared for him. He thought I did. I couldn't help that, could I? And then afterwards so many things happened--I was not the same person. If he had not begun to--do that, still it would have been impossible. But he won't believe it, or else he doesn't care. He'll persecute me again, and perhaps make me marry him." "My dear Miss Craven, he won't do that. People don't do those things in the nineteenth century. You've only got to state clearly that you won't have anything to say to him, and he can't do anything. If he tries to, there are measures that can be taken." She shook her head dismally. "Now comes the advice. Shall I tell you the truth? You've been worrying your brain over that wretched animal till your nerves are all upset. You're ill practically, or you couldn't take this morbid view of it. You ought to leave town and go away for a change." "Where could I go to?" "The south coast for choice. It's bracing." "If I only could! No, I can't leave London." "Why not? There's an excellent service of trains----" "Because--because I love London." "So do I for many reasons. There's no place like it, to my mind. But if I'd overworked myself in it, I should tear myself away. You can have too much of a good thing."