She walked alone in the drive after lunch--where she had been wont to meet him. Let it all go! At least it had done one thing for her--it had saved her from Wellgood. It had taught her love, and made the pretence of love impossible--the suffering of unwelcome caresses a thing unholy. Then it was not all to the bad? It left her with a dream, a vision, a thing unrealized yet real; something to take with her into that new, cold, unknown world of strange people into which, for a livelihood's sake, she must soon plunge--must plunge as soon as she had seen Harry married to Vivien! The sun was on the lake that afternoon; the water looked peaceful, friendly, consoling. She sat down by the margin of it, and gave herself to memories. They came thick and fast, repeating themselves endlessly out of scant material--full of shame, full of woe; but also full of triumph, for she had been loved--at least for the time desired--by the man of her love and desire. Bought at a great cost? Yes. And never ought to have been bought? No. But now by no means to be forgotten. She was alone; everything was still, in the calm of a September afternoon. She bowed her head to her hands and wept. The Nun walked up the drive and saw the figure of a woman weeping. Chapter XVIII. PENITENCE AND PROBLEMS. The Nun stopped, walked on a few paces, came to a stand again. She was visiting Nutley in pursuance of her plan of doing, if not that undiscoverable obvious, yet the more sensible thing--of preventing the "row" and, incidentally thereto, of finding out "what the woman really wanted." Here was the woman. Whatever she might really want, apparently she was very far from having got it yet. She also looked very different from the adversary with whom Miss Flower had pictured herself as conducting a contest of wits--quite unlike the cool, wary, dexterous woman who had played her difficult game between the two men so finely, and who might be trusted to treat her opponent to a very pretty display of fencing. The position seemed so changed that the Nun had thoughts of going back. To discover a new, and what one has considered rather a hostile, acquaintance in tears is embarrassing; and the acquaintance may well share the embarrassment. Fortunately Isobel stopped crying. She dried her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. The Nun advanced again. Isobel sat looking drearily over the lake. "Dropped your sixpence in the pond, Miss Vintry?" the Nun asked. Isobel turned round sharply. "Because--I mean--you're not looking very cheerful." Isobel's eyes hardened a little. "Have you been there long?" "I saw you were crying, if that's what you mean. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. People should cry in their own rooms if they want to keep it quiet." "Oh, never mind; it doesn't matter whether you saw or not. Every woman is entitled to cry sometimes." "I don't cry myself," observed the Nun, "but of course a great many girls do."