If a woman sins, and the chronicler of her sin desires to excuse the woman, her throes and her struggles, her pangs and her prayers always occupy at least three chapters. If one does not seek to excuse her, the fact of her fall may as well be stated in the fewest possible words. Mamie did struggle--she struggled for a long time--but in the end she was just as guilty as if she hadn't shed a tear. Field's pertinacity and passion wore her resistance out at last. Theirs was to be the ideal union, and of course he cited famous cases where the man and woman designed for each other by Heaven had met only after one of them had blundered. He did not explain why Heaven had permitted the blunders, after being at the pains to design kindred souls for each other's ecstasy; but there are things that even the youngest curate cannot explain. He insisted that she would never regret her step; he declared that, with himself for her husband, she would become celebrated. Art, love, joy, all might be hers at a word. And she spoke it. When Heriot came in one evening, Mamie was not there, and he wondered what had become of her, for at this hour she was always at home. But he had not a suspicion of evil--he was as far from being prepared for the blow that was in store as if Field had never crossed their path. He had let himself in with his latch-key, and after a quarter of an hour it occurred to him that she might be already in the dining-room. When he entered it, he noted with surprise that the table was laid only for one. "Where is Mrs. Heriot?" he said to the servant who appeared in response to his ring. "Mrs. Heriot has gone out of town, sir." "Out of town!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?" "Mrs. Heriot left a note for you, sir, to explain. There it is, sir." Heriot took it from the mantelpiece quickly; but still he had no suspicion--not an inkling of the truth. He tore the envelope open and read, while the maid waited respectfully by the door. "Your mistress has been called away," he said when he had finished; "illness! She will be gone some time." His back was to her; he could command his voice, but his face was beyond his control. He felt that if he moved he would reel, perhaps fall. He stood motionless, with the letter open in his hand. "Shall I serve dinner, sir?" "Yes, serve dinner, Odell; I'm quite ready." When the door closed, it was his opportunity to gain the chair; he walked towards it slowly, like a blind man. The letter that he held had left but one hope possible--the last hope of despair--to keep the matter for awhile from the servants' knowledge. As yet he was not suffering acutely; indeed, in these early moments, the effect of the shock was more physical than mental. There was a trembling through his body, and his head felt queerly light--empty, not his own.