"The world, you see, will know nothing of the fine sentiments which made you determine to take this step," I said. "You will be spoken of contemptuously, and he will be 'the fellow who is living with another man's wife, don't you know,' and that will injure him in many ways." "Do you think so?" she asked, anxiously. "I know it," I replied. "And look at it from that or any other point of view you like, and you must see you are making a mistake. A woman in your position sets an example whether she will or not, and even if all your best reasons for this step were made public, you would do harm by it, for there are only too many people apt enough as it is at finding specious excuses for their own shortcomings, who would be glad, if they dared, to do likewise. And you would not gain your object after all. You would neither be happy yourself, nor make Lorrimer happy. People like you are sensitive about their honour--it is the sign of their superiority; and the indulgence of love, even at the moment, and under the most favourable circumstances of youth, beauty, and intellectual equality, does not satisfy such natures, if the indulgence be not regulated and sanctified by all that men and women have devised to make their relations moral." This was my last argument, and when I had done she sat there for a long time silent, resting her head against my knee, and scarcely breathing. She was fighting it out with herself, and I thought it best to leave her alone--besides, I had already said all there was to say; repetition would only have irritated her, and there was nothing now for it but to wait. Outside, I could hear the dreary drip of raindrops; somewhere in the room a clock ticked obtrusively; but it was long past midnight, and the house was still. I thought that only the night and silence watched with me, and waited upon the suffering of this one poor soul. At last she moved, uttering a low moan, like one in pain. "I do see it," she said, almost in a whisper; "and I am willing to give him up." "God in His mercy help you!" I prayed. "And forgive me," she answered, humbly. She was quite exhausted, and passively submitted when I led her to her room. I closed the shutters to keep out the cheerless dawn, and made the fire burn up, and lit the lamps. She sat silently watching me, and did not seem to think it odd that I should do this for her. She clung to me then as a little child clings to its father, and, like a father, I ministered to her, reverently, then left her, as I hoped, to sleep. My sister opened her door as I passed. She was dressed, and had been watching, too, the whole night long. "Well?" she asked. I kissed her. "It is well," I answered; and she burst into tears. "Can I go to her now?" she said. "Yes, go." I went to Claudia's room, and waited. After a long time she returned. "She is quiet at last," she told me, sorrowfully. And so the long night ended. CHAPTER XXVII.