“I have given Jack up,” said Muriel wearily, “because Edith le Mentier——” she stopped. “Oh, I can’t explain,” she murmured. “The words don’t mean anything, but—but, Cynthia, I couldn’t marry a man who had once loved, or thought he loved, that woman. I could not trust a man whom I felt was weaker than I. If I had children——” she paused again. “You see I knew a woman who married, and the man was a dear fellow; but he had been weak, and the strain was in him—and he was weak again. When I was engaged to Alec Bruce she said to me, ‘It’s not of so much importance to avoid bad men—they’re danger signals we aren’t blind to—but for God’s sake never marry a weak one.’” Muriel caught her breath with a little dry sob. “Oh, you little idiot, you little idiot,” cried Cynthia with flashing eyes. “What’s another woman’s, any woman’s, all other women’s experience to one’s own heart? Love, and take the consequences—there’s nothing else; it’s the only thing worth while. Why should you condemn yourself and Jack to a death in life because of that wretched woman?—besides, you don’t even know if it’s true! It’s madness, Muriel—madness. He’ll marry somebody else, and turn out a mere do-nothing, and you’ll wear your life out in another five years. And it’s all useless, reasonless, cruel. And then you’ll pray for his soul, and expect me too, perhaps. But I shan’t! Can’t you see you’re driving him back to her?” Muriel dragged herself to her feet. “You forget I believe,” she said very slowly, “in the life of the world to come.” Then covering her face with her hands she burst into tears. Cynthia Grant wrote that night to her brother: “I don’t know whether it’s any use, Geoff, but she’s broken the whole business off between herself and Jack Hurstly. She’s desperate, but determined. It’s all for a mere nothing. I cannot understand her; but I won’t let her work herself to death if I can help it. She was a fool ever to have cared for him, and more of a fool not to have married him. It would be difficult to know which we do more harm with, we women, our hearts or our souls—‘Where a soul may be discerned.’” But Muriel was on her knees all night praying that he might live and she might be forgiven. CHAPTER XVI “If Winter come, can Spring be far behind!” IT was a day when all hope of spring was left behind—withered in a black northeaster—when every one unfortunate enough to be in England longs for the south of France, and every one who has been out of England compares it unfavorably with other climates. Cynthia had left Muriel with a frightful cold and the club accounts, and had gone out to buy her some violets. They had heard that morning from Mary Huntly that Jack was recovering, though the fever resulting from the accident had necessitated sick leave. He would probably have got Muriel’s letter by now. Cynthia looked longingly at some impossibly expensive roses, when she heard a man’s voice behind her.