Swallowed up in this overwhelming anguish, he sympathised with me, and would have spared me the blow if he could. I did not blame him then for what he had done. But what should I do? Was I to remain here, in the room which Ronald and I had beautified together? I did not even know whether he would come back to his home again; perhaps his flight with Ida was already planned, and I might never see him more. The question that was in my poor, confused mind, issued involuntarily from my lips. As one in a dream, I heard my own voice saying— "What shall I do?" "There is only one thing to be done." William Greystock had risen to his feet, and his tone was strong and firm. He stood before me, tall and upright, and the afternoon sun shone in upon his darkly handsome face and brilliant eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Hepburne, there is only one thing to be done. Did I not say that there was one power left to you—the power of using your wings? You must fly." "I must fly," I repeated, stupidly. "I cannot stay here." "You need not stay here another hour. You can come away and forget the man who has so basely wronged you. Let him seek happiness where he will; let him go, Louie: he never was worthy of your love." "He will go," I murmured. "Already he is lost to me." "Utterly lost. Louie, you must begin a new life. Come with me; let me lay at your feet the heart that has always been your own. Let me devote myself to you until I have made you forget your false husband; let me show you how a man can love when he has won the woman of his choice." Was I going mad? There arose from the depths of my soul a passionate prayer that I might awake and find that I had been dreaming a strange and evil dream. But no; I was sitting on the old sofa in the familiar little room, and there was William Greystock, a veritable form of flesh and blood. As the consciousness of his reality smote upon my bewildered brain, I too rose suddenly to my feet, and felt myself inspired with feverish courage and strength. "I never thought to have fallen so low as this," I said, sternly confronting him. "Has there been anything in me to lead you to think that I could be false to my marriage vow? Do you suppose that Ronald's desertion can make me forget my duty to God and myself?" "You are absolved from all vows," he cried, hastily. "Listen to me, Mrs. Hepburne, I entreat you!" "I have already listened too long. You came here, supposing that the deserted wife would be an easy victim. Well, you are quickly undeceived. Villain—traitor—tempter—I am ready to go to my grave; but I will never stir one step from this house with you!" The glow had faded out of his face, leaving it as white as death. He had played his last card, and he would never begin the game again. A weaker man would have lingered and tried to move me; but William Greystock knew that mine were no idle words.