She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made him wince. Hysteria--suppose Steppe did come back? He went moist at the thought. "Ronnie, why don't you?" she breathed. "It would save me. It would save father, too. He would accept the accomplished fact, and be relieved. Ronnie, it would save my soul and my body. I'd serve you as faithfully as any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie. I'd be--I'd be as light as the lightest woman you know--don't you realize what I am saying--?" "My dear girl," he said, thoroughly alarmed, "I couldn't oppose Steppe, he's a good fellow, really he is. I'm sure you'd be happy. I'm awfully fond of you--" "Then take me away! I'll go with you tonight--now, now! Take me. Ronnie, I'll go--now--this very minute and I'll bless you. He wouldn't want me then. I know him." "I--I wish you wouldn't talk such rot," he quavered. "Take me," she urged desperately. "There is a train tonight for Ostende, take me. Take me, Ronald, I could love you--I could love you in gratitude--save me from this gross man." Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said shrilly. "Steppe would kill me. Beryl, I'm fond of you, but I can't cross Steppe." That was the end, her last throw in the game. Ronnie was Ronnie. That was all. She was very calm now; but for her pallor and the uncontrollable tremor of her hands, her old self. That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a moment's regret. Stampeded--she had been stampeded by sheer physical fear. "I think I'll go," she said, taking up her furs. "You need not get me a cab--this time. And Moropulos cannot photograph me. I might have forced you to do what I wished, playing on your fears. I couldn't do that. What a coward--but I won't reproach you, Ronnie." She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly. This time he took no risks. He gave her a minute's start and then he, too, went out. Madame Ritti was ever a place of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves were jangled. XIV How quickly the days flew past! Beryl had a letter from Sir John Maxton one Saturday: "I have seen our friend for the third time since the sentence; you know that on Tuesday he 'goes the way'--those are his own words. What can I tell you of him. Beryl, that you do not know? He has become one of my dearest friends. How strange that seems, written! Yet it is true and when he asked me if I would come and see him on the morning, I agreed. In France it is the custom of the defending advocate to be present--I am glad it is not necessary in England. Yet I shall go and I pray that I may be as fearless as he. "He spoke of you yesterday and of 'Christina'--that is Miss Colebrook, isn't it? But so cheerfully!