To be able to see from only one point of view is indescribably consoling. Unluckily for her, Lady Wereminster could put herself in other people’s places, could judge the result of her own work as critically as she judged the work of others. When she had, more or less, compelled Farquharson to marry, she had acted emotionally; her one idea had been to save Evelyn from threatened scandals. She had not reckoned, for one moment, on Farquharson’s temperament. She had practically bid him seek a wife—any wife. What was the result? She forgot that she was dealing with a reckless and adventurous man—the type upon which one can never count with certainty. There had always been a spark of dare-devilry in Farquharson’s nature. She had expected him to weigh the various advantages of the various charming ladies who tripped across his social stage as possible candidates for marriage. Instead of doing this, he had flung himself headlong into the first abyss which gaped before him. It would have been worth another man’s while perhaps to marry Dora; but Farquharson could get on without Beadon’s influence. And Dora’s character was, as any woman of discernment would observe, one which must inevitably repel and alienate him. Such women are like cancerous growths; they eat away a man’s vitality, robbing him in time of strength and force of will. And she was responsible for this outrageous marriage—she, Mary Wereminster. She who had always prided herself upon her judgment and balance. Lives are, after all, very dangerous chemicals to play with. Mix the wrong two together, and disaster follows. With the best intentions in the world, what had Lady Wereminster compassed after all? She had not really saved Evelyn; there are times when even a surgeon decides that a disease is inoperative. She had taken Farquharson from a life of comparative peace and thrown him into one of petty annoyance and difficulties—jars which strain such a man’s endurance to the utmost. Lady Wereminster did not for one moment believe that Farquharson had committed the act of which he had been accused; but she thought that he might possibly have been careless, and, if it were so, his failure was due to the consequence of that mad marriage into which she had pitilessly flung him. So the tragedy, the betrayal, the very position that her nation stood in at the moment, was due to her own folly, her own ruthless activity. Impulsively spoken words, letters written under misapprehensions, can never be withdrawn. If as a child one makes a mistake in a sum, one can erase the figures and add them up afresh. But in life a mistake once made is irremediable, as Lady Wereminster knew. *CHAPTER XI* "To all men there comes the last battle."—GEORGE STEVENS.