Flashing on the light, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter-past three. She rose up, and drawing the curtains over the windows, set about packing the few things it was imperative she should take. At first she seemed to possess neither bag nor box of a suitable size, and, gazing helplessly around the room, realised how weak and nervous, and, above all, how curiously dull and stupid, she was feeling. With an impatient effort she pulled herself together, and concentrated all her wits upon this question of a box. Finally, she thought of her dressing-bag. By removing most of the fittings she was able to crush into it all she had sorted out to pack. Then, slipping off the embroidered muslin morning-gown she still wore, she sought for her plainest and most serviceable outdoor costume. Evarne's taste in dress in no ways inclined to simplicity. She gloried in frills and furbelows, dainty details, falling lace and fashionably cut skirts. Even her tailor-built gowns were not really severe. The fact that a brown face-cloth was made with a short skirt prompted her choice. It was elaborately stitched and strapped, but demure in tone, its only contrasting colour being a touch of delicate rose-pink--chosen by Morris himself to match the exquisite tint of her cheeks. She took no ornaments, but drew from a corner in her jewel-box a small enamel watch, the last gift of her father. With a stifled sigh she wound it up, and, shaking it a little to make it recommence its long-abandoned duties, pinned it on her dress, while she laid the yet tinier bejewelled toy that had superseded it back into the case. She would scornfully leave behind every ornament that had belonged to brighter days; Morris would find them all and perhaps be a bit sorry! But money she must have, and she looked anxiously into her purse. It contained but a couple of napoleons and some silver. There were four more gold pieces in her desk; her velvet bag with the turquoises contained only two. The embroidered bag, bought to match her latest green costume, contributed three, while a few stray francs lay on the dressing-table. She gathered them all into her lap and counted them. Only a little over twelve napoleons altogether. It was alarmingly little, but it would have to suffice. This done, she again studied the hour. It was not yet four. She had no idea when the earliest train set out, but felt convinced that it could not start so matutinally. It was nearly sixteen hours since she had last tasted food, but she was not at all conscious of hunger. She was in a strangely numbed state of mind. Beyond an impatience to be once fairly off, she seemed unable to care for aught else. Nothing mattered! Nothing ever could matter now! Still, the sight of a plate of fruit reminded her of her long fast, and she half-peeled a banana, but even as she raised it to her lips, a sudden repugnance at the idea of eating anything further beneath this roof, caused her to put it down untasted.