She turned back to the window, not knowing why she came into the garden, not knowing what to do with this sad day. There was a rockery near the French window--the usual rockery, rich in clinkers. But some blue thing stared up into the brown air boldly. She uttered a sudden glad cry and stooped, letting her skirt brush the wet gravel. It was a delicate blue periwinkle. There was a patch of blue periwinkle at Folly Corner, just by the granary. Periwinkle! What nonsense was it that Gainah told her about periwinkle? Ah, yes! If a man and his wife eat the leaves they will ever be faithful each to the other. The blue flower with its trail of glistening leaves was in her hand. She bit one leaf, laughing--yet more a sob than a laugh--as she did it. She would never be Jethro’s wife--nor any man’s. She was a tainted thing. She stared at the flower, a long, thoughtful stare. Then she laughed again and clapped her hands--the heavy, blinding tears in her eyes. The world was to her one wide delicate flower of cold blue. She went through the window, laid the trail on the table, looked at it questioningly. Once she said to it, “Shall I? Dare I?” Then, with a clumsy movement, she dragged herself up, hurried to the door, went up the stairs two at a time. The maids were making her bed. She said abruptly: “I am going away--a visit. I may be back to-night--I cannot say. You’ll see to everything just as if Mrs. Clutton and I were at home.” They left her alone. She put on her things and went out of the house. She didn’t leave a note for Barbara; she didn’t take any luggage; she didn’t look at the house with any feeling--no lingering glance of farewell. Her strip of needlework was hanging out of the basket. She didn’t trouble to put it in. She might be back to-night. It was extremely likely that she would be back. Of course she would. She was a fool, an impudent, optimistic fool to go at all. She would be back. She nearly rang the bell to order dinner at the usual time. She kept assuring herself that night would find her again in London--shuddering at every assurance. She knew very well that this journey was her last throw. She knew very well that this journey was to decide everything. Jethro might be married. He might be, if not already married, committed to some nice, pure, faithful girl. Was she the sort of woman to be introduced to a girl of that tepid, blameless description? The contempt for mere unimpassioned, untempted virtue curled her lip. He might be contemptuous, hard. He might be brutal; he could be bitterly, uncompromisingly brutal when he chose. He had the reputation of being a hard man--all the Jaynes had. She could imagine him saying very coolly some damning, insulting thing. She could see his ruddy patrician face as he said it, could see the relentless glint in his cold blue eyes. Eyes a couple of shades paler than the periwinkle; she crushed it in her hand.