She was being tortured,--tortured with a singular refinement of cruelty. But even now she did not blame Athena. Athena had meant kindly by her in coming here to-night. But oh! if she would only go away. It was agony to Jane to see her there. "He respects you!" whispered Mrs. Maule, leaning forward. "He admires you! He esteems you! Oh, Jane, I should feel proud if any man spoke of me as he speaks of you----" But Jane did not feel proud. Jane felt humiliated to the dust. During the many miserable hours she had spent in the last fortnight, she had been spared the hateful suspicion that Hew Lingard ever spoke of her to Athena Maule. And indeed Lingard had never so spoken, yet the strange thing was that Athena, when uttering those lying words, half believed them to be true. In the first days of her acquaintance with Lingard, she had herself said many kind, warm, affectionate things of Jane Oglander, to which he had perforce assented. It now pleased her to imagine, and even more to say, that it was he who had spoken those words of praise, of liking, of warm but unlover-like affection.... "If you only knew how he feels," she went on rapidly, "you would feel sorry for him, Jane, deeply sorry; not, as you have a right to feel, angry--angry both with him and with me! I'm afraid--I know, that often he feels wretched--horribly wretched about it all." "I am very sorry," said Jane Oglander in a low voice, "sorry, not--not angry, Athena----" and then she stopped short. "Sorry" seemed a poor, inadequate word, but it was the only word she could find. Her heart was wrung with sorrow, with unavailing, useless sorrow for both these unhappy people, as well as for herself. Judging them by what she would have felt had she been either of them, she believed them to be very miserable. Athena was now huddled up on the bed. She was crying bitterly, her face hidden in her hands, the tears trickling through the fingers. She was dreadfully, dreadfully sorry for herself. Jane Oglander could not see anyone as unhappy and as abased as she believed her friend to be feeling, and make no attempt at consolation. Bending forward, she put out her arms and gathered to her the slender rounded shoulders, the beautiful dark head. "If only something could be done," she whispered, "if only there was a way out, Athena!" Athena Maule raised her tear-stained face. Her moment had at last come. "There is a way out," she said slowly, impressively. She put the palms of her hands on the other woman's breast--"Tell me, Jane, would it make you very unhappy, would you ever be able to forgive me--if I married Hew Lingard?" Jane looked at her with troubled eyes. "I don't understand," she faltered. "Do you mean when--when Richard is dead, Athena?"