The inexorable realities of her world, those realities of which she had so rarely allowed herself to lose sight, came pressing back upon her with renewed insistence. That momentary glow of exultation, of self-vindication faded before the hard daylight which rushed in upon her soul. She saw not only how it had all been, but how it would all be to the end. Then once more his low, broken voice was in her ear, his supplicating eyes before her; the music, the breath of dying flowers assailed once more her senses; she lived over again that near, far-off, wonderful moment. Again Judith dropped her hands to her side; she clenched them in an intolerable agony; she took a few steps and flung herself face forwards on the pillow. Shame, anger, pride, all were swept away in an overwhelming torrent of emotion; in a sudden flood of passion, of longing, of desolation. Baffled, vanquished, she lay there, crushing out the sound of unresisted sobs. From her heart rose only the cry of defeat:-- “Reuben, Reuben, have mercy on me!” CHAPTER XIV. Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart; ’Tis woman’s whole existence. BYRON. Judith slept far into the morning the sound, deep sleep of exhaustion; that sleep of the heavy-hearted from which, almost by an effort of will, the dreams are banished. The first thing of which she was aware was the sound of Rose’s voice, and then of Rose herself standing over her with a plate and a cup of coffee in her hand. Judith raised herself on her elbow; a vague sense of calamity clung to her; her eyes were heavy with more than the heaviness of sleep. “It is ten o’clock,” cried Rose. “I have brought you your breakfast. Rather handsome of me, isn’t it?” “Yes, very,” said Judith, smiling faintly. “How came I to sleep so late?” It was quite an event in her well-ordered existence; she realized it with a little shock which set her memory in motion. Judith drank her coffee hastily and sprang out of bed. She went through her toilet with even more care and precision than usual; there is nothing more conducive to self respect than a careful toilet. Nothing had happened; everything had happened. Judith felt that she had grown older in the night. All day long people came and went and gossiped; gossiped loudly and ceaselessly of last night’s party; more cautiously and at intervals of Mr. Ronaldson’s death. In the evening Adelaide, Esther, and Mrs. Sachs came in, but not Reuben. Not Reuben--she knew her sentence. That brief moment of clear vision, of courage, had faded, as we know, even as it came. Now she dared not even look back upon it--dared not think at all. Nothing had happened--nothing. She fell back upon the unconsciousness, the unsuspiciousness of her neighbours. For them the world was not changed; how was it possible that great things had taken place? She talked, moved about, and went through all the little offices of her life.