"Old fool!" she soliloquised--"He ought to know better than to play the tragic-sentimental with me at his time of life! I thought he would accept the situation reasonably and help me to tackle it. Of course it will be simply abominable if I am to meet that girl at every big society function--I don't know what I shall do about it! Why didn't she stay in her old farm-house!--who could ever have imagined her becoming famous! I shall go abroad, I think--that will be the best thing to do. If Blythe leaves me as he threatens, I shall certainly not stay here by myself to face the music! Besides, who knows?--the girl herself may 'round' on me when her head gets a little more swelled with success. Such a horrid bore!--I wish I had never seen Pierce Armitage!" Even as she thought of him the vision came back to her of the handsome face and passionate eyes of her former lover,--again she saw the romantic little village by the sea where they had dwelt together as in another Eden,--she remembered how he would hurry up from the shore bringing with him the sketch he had been working at, eager for her eyes to look at it, thrilling at her praise, and pouring out upon her such tender words and caresses such as she had never known since those wild and ardent days! A slight shiver ran through her--something like a pang of remorse stung her hardened spirit. "And the child," she murmured--"The child--it clung to me and I kissed it!--it was a dear little thing!" She glanced about her nervously--the room seemed full of wandering shadows. "I must sleep!" she thought--"I am worried and out of sorts--I must sleep and forget--" She took out of a drawer in her dressing-table a case of medicinal cachets marked "Veronal." "One or two more or less will not hurt me," she said, with a pale, forced smile at herself in the mirror--"I am accustomed to it--and I must have a good long sleep!" ******** ****** **** She had her way. Morning came,--and she was still sleeping. Noon--and nothing could waken her. Doctors, hastily summoned, did their best to rouse her to that life which with all its pains and possibilities still throbbed in the world around her--but their efforts were vain. "Suicide?" whispered one. "Oh no! Mere accident!--an overdose of veronal--some carelessness--quite a common occurrence. Nothing to be done!" No!--nothing to be done! Her slumber had deepened into that strange stillness which we call death,--and her husband, a statuesque and rigid figure, gazed on her quiet body with tearless eyes. "Good-night!" he whispered to the heavy silence--"Good-night! Farewell!" CHAPTER VI