"No wonder; I may well be ashamed. It is too weak—too foolish! But I will hide it! Stamp it down! Hold up my head!" And she flung back her abundant hair with a proud gesture. "If love can die, mine shall be killed. Nobody shall see! Nobody shall know! I see how!—I'll laugh at Nigel—tease him—make myself as disagreeable as I can! . . . No, no, that might be read. And why must I pain him? He will have worries enough among them all. No, no, I'll follow a nobler line—more womanly. That at least remains. If I cannot be happy, he may be. I'll give him sympathy, and help it forward. I'll smooth things down for him, as I know I can—more than any other human being. I shall not be misunderstood then—shall not be understood, I mean! What nonsense I am talking! . . . Yes, that will do! He shall think I am glad—delighted. He shall owe some of his happiness to me. And she—I will try to love Ethel—will try to make her see better what Nigel is. And if he is happy—really happy—should I not be happy too, knowing it? But, oh—" One moment Fulvia stood upright, smiling triumphantly at her own reflection. The next, an irresistible stab came, and tears burst forth in a deluge. She dropped to the ground, rather than threw herself down, hid her face upon those same folded arms now laid against a chair, and shook with smothered weeping, all the more intense because smothered. Fulvia had never cried easily. From earliest childhood it had taken a great deal to bring tears—unlike Anice, who had a supply always ready to hand for the slightest call. But with Fulvia, when once the flow began, it was as difficult to check as it had been difficult to start. She could weep on to an almost indefinite extent; until, indeed, bodily exhaustion should put an end to the paroxysm. Fulvia was strong, however, and bodily exhaustion was long in coming. Again and again she strove to master herself, almost with success; again and again a return wave mastered her. From the moment that she collapsed, something not far from two hours passed before she could lift her head. When she again stood before the glass she had grown sick with agitation. Her face was blistered; and the eyes had almost vanished beneath their swollen lids. "This must be the last time," she said aloud, resolutely. "I will not give way again." But what if she were overcome by some sudden strain? A new dread of her own weakness assailed Fulvia, who had never felt herself weak before. "It shall not be!" she muttered. "I will not give way! I will not! Any woman can be strong who chooses. I will be strong! I will not betray myself—whatever happens." She began at length to make ready for going to bed, in a mechanical fashion, plaiting loosely her long hair to keep it out of her eyes, noting the lateness of the hour. Not far from two o'clock! "What would the madre think of me? But they shall not know. I must look like myself to-morrow. If only I can sleep!"