And the footman announcing the electric at that moment, we flew off and left them, Christopher having fastened my sable collar with an air of possession which would have irritated me beyond words at another time, but I felt cold and dead, and utterly numb. Lady Ver did not speak a word on the way back, and kissed me frigidly as she went into her room; then she called out: "I am tired, snake-girl; don't think I am cross. Good-night." And so I crept up to bed. To-morrow is Saturday and my visit ends. After my lunch with Lady Merrenden, I am a wanderer on the face of the earth. Where shall I wander to? I feel I want to go away by myself, away where I shall not see a human being who is English. I want to forget what they look like; I want to shut out of my sight their well-groomed heads; I want--oh, I do not know what I do want. Shall I marry Mr. Carruthers? He would eat me up, and then go back to Paris to the lady he loves. But I should have the life I like--and the Carruthers's emeralds are beautiful--and I love Branches--and--and---- "Her ladyship would like to see you, miss," said a footman. So I went up the stairs. Lady Ver was in a darkened room, soft pink blinds right down beyond the half-drawn blue silk curtains. "I have a fearful head, Evangeline," she said. "Then I will smooth your hair," and I climbed up behind her and began to run over her forehead with the tips of my fingers. "You are really a pet, snake-girl," she said, "and you can't help it." "I can't help what?" "Being a witch. I knew you would hurt me when I first saw you, and I tried to protect myself by being kind to you." "Oh, dear Lady Ver!" I said, deeply moved. "I would not hurt you for the world, and indeed you misjudge me. I have kept the bargain to the very letter--and spirit." "Yes, I know you have to the letter, at least, but why did Robert go out of the box last night?" she demanded, wearily. "He said he had got a chill, did not he?" I replied, lamely. She clasped her hands passionately. "A chill! You don't know Robert. He never had a chill in his life," she said. "Oh, he is the dearest, dearest being in the world. He makes me believe in good and all things honest. He isn't vicious, and isn't a prig, and he knows the world, and he lives in its ways like the rest of us, and yet he doesn't begin by thinking every woman is fair game and undermining what little self-respect she may have left to her." "Yes," I said. I found nothing else to say. "If I had had a husband like that I would never have yawned," she went on; "and besides, Robert is too masterful and would be too jealous to let one divert one's self with another." "Yes," I said again, and continued to smooth her forehead. "He has sentiment, too--he is not matter-of-fact and brutal--and oh, you should see him on a horse!--he is too, too beautiful." She stretched out her arms in a movement of weariness that was pathetic and touched me. "You have known him a long, long time?" I said, gently.