The handle of the door turned slowly. Indiana, who had been coiled up, like a kitten, in the big armchair, put down her feet, which had been tucked under her, and straightened herself stiffly. In her nervousness she almost dropped her cup, and she looked piteously at Jennings, as though for help. It could be no other than Thurston, as the servants would have knocked, and no one else rose so early. She was right. When he entered and saw the picture by the fire—Indiana, sitting in her white wrap, with the tea-tray before her, and Jennings standing near—he paused for a moment. Jennings took the tray and left the room. Thurston felt neither curious nor interested to know why she had stayed there all night. He himself had not closed his eyes. He had summoned all his strength to make a certain resolution, one which he considered imperative, after his wife’s passionate avowal of hate and regret. All else—things which at another time he would have accounted strange—seemed trivial and unimportant. He had relinquished all hope of winning his wife’s love. He saw himself weaving the gray web of his life until the end. Indiana gave one swift glance at his face as he approached the fire, then quickly averted her eyes. "I have weighed existing circumstances as fairly as possible, and have concluded that our case is hopeless," began Thurston, without preliminaries. Indiana, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes gazing straight before her, listened with strained attention. "I have tried to awaken you, gradually, to the personal responsibility of your new position. My confidence was strong in my own power to win a love that, to me, was worth waiting for—worth the winning." He covered his eyes with his hand, then went on, with an effort. "My courage has gone. The dread of a repetition of last night’s frenzy—degrading to us both—between husband and wife—horrible!" His agitation would not permit him to continue. He turned from her and paced the room. Finally, he stopped and looked at her motionless figure. "Have you anything to say?" Her lips trembled, she shook her head, trying to restrain an hysterical outburst of sobs. Then she rose to go to her room. "One moment," said Thurston, sternly. "I do not wish your maid to see you like this. You must help yourself this morning, and—I shall breakfast with my mother. When you are quite composed and ready to receive her, she will come to you—as she thinks you retired early last night with a headache." "Ah, she doesn’t know!" exclaimed Indiana. "I’m glad of that—very glad." "Your people were talking of going to Paris in a week or so—you will go with them—on a pleasure trip." Indiana, leaning against the table, lifted her eyes wonderingly to his. He met her gaze, proudly and relentlessly. "You will go with them to America—on a pleasure trip. I will break it to my mother, slowly—that you are not coming back."