“Oh!” she breathed, seeming to collapse with this added indignity of Edred’s. “Yes. I understand. Spare me any more confirming proofs.” She hid her face in the sofa-cushions, her shame choking her. Sutton put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be so upset,” he said, with a pompous, condescending attempt at comfort. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t help it. It will be all right. I’ll marry you myself. There shall be no hanky-panky this time.” She started up as if his hand had been the thin lash of a whip through her cloak. “Don’t touch me! Marry you! It is impossible for anyone like you to understand. You don’t know how near I am to desperate crime--only I am a coward. That makes you safe--I am a coward. I wish Edred would come home. If only I knew where to find him!” “The address is in my pocket-book,” he sneered. “But you can’t be serious. What do you want him for? You can’t alter things. If you nag at him, he’ll only laugh, or hit you.” “If he would only come back,” she moaned. “If I could touch him, see him, speak to him. I feel so alone, so incapable and miserable.” “You want to have it out with him?” “I want him,” she returned simply. Then Sutton lost his temper. “You are an idiot,” he said flatly. “I make you a good offer; not many men would make it, and you can only----” She laughed contemptuously, looking full in his eyes. “You droll, contemptible creature,” she said with limitless scorn. “Of course you don’t understand. How should you? I am going out--never mind where. I am coming back--or I am not--according to my mood. You needn’t be certain of anything--but the one thing: I don’t intend to marry _you!_” She whirled out of the room before he could collect his startled wits. She was out of the flat and half down the stairs before he could stop her. The vast, high house was dark. She ran down the familiar stone steps, drew the long bolts of the entrance door. As she opened it, she heard the patter of slippers, a little down at heel, covering the flights; heard a hoarse, cautious voice cry out down the black shoot of the quiet staircase. “Pamela! Come back! Don’t be a fool! Don’t lose your head like this!” Her only answer was another strident laugh. The door thudded after her. She stood alone in the night--a chilly night, with a spray of rain. She stood facing the black mass of the Park. She swept on westward. After a while she grew cool, practical enough to put her hand in her pocket and feel if she had her purse. It was there, lying heavy at the bottom. Her head was on fire, her sore heart beat rapidly. She went on trying to formulate her life as the day must see it. Dawn meant shame, ridicule, curiosity. She couldn’t walk London in thin shoes with heavily jetted toes, in a cloak bordered with swansdown and a long tea-gown.