Nora stood before the long glass in the drawing-room and studied herself with a listless interest. The expensive white chiffon dress which Wolff had given her for the occasion became her well, and at another time she might have found an innocent pleasure in this contemplation of her own picture. But she was exhausted, spiritually and physically. The storm of the day before had shattered something in her—perhaps her youth—and she saw in the mirror only the pale face and heavy eyes, and before her in the near future an evening of outward gaiety and inward trial. That which she had once sought after with feverish desire—magnificence and contact with the great world where stuffy flats and poverty were unknown—had become her poison. She shrank instinctively, like some poor invalid, from all noise and movement. She would have been thankful to be able to lie down and sleep and forget, but Duty, that grim fetish to which she had sworn obedience, demanded of her that she should laugh and seem merry beneath the critical, questioning eyes of those who to-morrow might be fighting against her people. Miles was lying in his usual attitude on the sofa, watching her. He had been curiously quiet the whole day, keeping to the house and avoiding Arnim with an increased shyness. Nora believed that she understood him. She did not see that his young face was sallow and lined with dissipation, nor that his furtive eyes were heavy and bloodshot. She saw in him only the brother, the Englishman, and that one fact of his nationality covered him with a cloak, hiding from her all that was pitiable and contemptible, lending him a dignity, a worthiness that was not his. So also she interpreted his general conduct and his abrupt refusal to accompany her to the Hulsons’ ball. She felt that he was awaiting the hour of departure to his own country, chafing at the bonds which held him, and that, like a true Englishman, he shrank from all further association with his future enemies. She honoured him for it—she envied him for it; but she dreaded her own loneliness. She came to his side and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "I wish you were coming too," she said, "for my sake, not for yours." "I can’t," he retorted sullenly. "No, I know. I was not going to try and persuade you. I understand so well how you feel. Oh, Miles, you must go back to England—we must manage it somehow. I shall tell Wolff to-night. Things can’t be worse than they are—and perhaps he will help."