“I am half-sick of shadows.” MURIEL read Cynthia’s letter wonderingly. It was short, and merely contained her reasons for leaving Muriel for six months at least. By the end of that time Leslie Damores would have given her up, and she would be more fit to take up her life again. Muriel was not to tell him that she was ever coming back; she was not to overdo herself or live alone, and above all she must not give him her address. Geoff was going with her. Muriel sighed and frowned; the sigh was one of loneliness. She had got so used to companionship—Cynthia’s, and generally her brother in the evening. It was something to have a man to discuss things with sensibly even if she never agreed with him. She frowned because it was a little strange he had not written to say good-bye. He had got over caring for her that was evident. She was glad of that—of course she was extremely glad of it. Suddenly she felt tired and discouraged. The girls had been unresponsive and tiresome in the Bible-class. She loved Paris; she could see its clean, broad streets filled with brilliant, rapid life, bright and gay and fresh, alive with incessant laughter. It was a damp, foggy evening and the fire smoked. They had such theaters in Paris, and then the studios! Muriel had studied there for six months in the pleasantest and easiest fashion. Sometimes the love of her old, careless radiant life, pleasure and beauty, and the ease of things made her catch her breath and remember she was twenty-seven, and her eyes were beautiful, and there was that couple downstairs drunk and quarrelling again! It was too late for tea, too early for supper, and if she lit the candle she would have to write letters. The door-bell clanged, and she heard a man’s voice. For a moment she thought it was Dr. Grant coming to say good-bye. Her hands wandered instinctively to her hair. No!—he asked for Cynthia. He must see her—but she was out. “Then Miss Dallerton”—the girl “would see.” The blackbeetle’s heavy footsteps paused outside her door. Muriel lit the candles and poked the fire. “Yes, I will see Mr. Damores,” she said smiling encouragingly at the girl. She felt less depressed because she had already begun to sympathize, and yet she could not help feeling angry with Leslie Damores. He stood before her, tall, handsome, eager; she sat down and waited for him to speak. One of the most extraordinary things about her was her willingness to wait for somebody else, even her silence was an invitation. “Cynthia wouldn’t see me,” he began, almost boyishly. “Won’t you tell me why, and where she is, Miss Muriel?” “She has gone away, Mr. Damores, and left us both. It’s a case of double desertion, isn’t it?” she laughed nervously, for the look in his eyes was too strongly anxious to make the interview a pleasant one. “Has she left you a message for me?” “She does not wish to see you again,” said Muriel gravely. He was quite silent, with his eyes bent on the carpet.