When the train steamed into the station, she rose in a quick but mechanical way, and took her seat in an empty compartment. Upon arriving at Victoria, she left the train in the same quick, mechanical way, got into a cab, and drove to a house in Jermyn Street. Having engaged a bed-room and sitting-room here, she sat down at once and wrote a letter. As soon as the letter was finished she left the house, dropped the letter into the first post-pillar, and then ascended to the middle section of Regent Street. She visited several shops, bought many things, and ordered many more. When this was done she paused, seemingly at a loss. "My letter," she thought, "will not be there until night. In the meantime, what shall I do?" She walked slowly down Regent Street. At last she started. "How stupid," she thought, "I have been not to telegraph! If I had telegraphed I could have had an answer in an hour." She hastened forward, asked a policeman where the nearest telegraph office was, and on arriving there despatched a message. Then she went back to Jermyn Street, and, laying aside her bonnet and mantle, waited. In an hour and a half a reply came. It ran: "_I shall be with you almost as soon as this_." When she read the message she got up and walked about the room in a state of great excitement. It was now dark, and the gas had not yet been lighted in the room. As she paced up and down she wrung her hands and moaned. After a while she became calmer, but still continued walking up and down. She had eaten nothing that day, yet she felt no want of food. In fact, when the servant, upon her return, suggested that she had better order dinner, she had refused to do so with a shudder. She knew she should need for the coming interview all her strength, but she could not bear the notion of food. She had not slept during the whole night, yet she felt no want of sleep. "I feel," she thought, "as though my sorrows were immortal, and that I shall require earthly succour no more." She had not long to wait in solitude. A hansom drove up to the door, a man jumped out, and in a few minutes he was ushered into the room. He found her still in the dark, leaning on the mantelshelf. "Marion," he said--"are you here, Marion?" "Yes," she answered, "I am here." "I cannot see you, it is so dark." "It is very dark. It never has been darker in all my life, and you know it." "Will you not shake hands with me and order lights?" "Neither. What is to be said can best be said in the dark. It is in the nature of darkness itself. Sit down. I prefer to stand; I wish you to sit. Sit down." His eyes were now becoming accustomed to the obscurity. He found a chair, and sat down. "Are you alone?" he asked, looking up at where she stood, motionless, by the mantelpiece. "_Absolutely_," she answered, in a cold, hard voice. "And you know it." "How could I know it? I got your telegram, and came at once. Marion, you are speaking to me in a tone I am unused to from you."