Frances attempted no rejoinder of any sort. She understood him too well. He had warned her not to return, at what cost to himself she would never know, though possibly it was for his own sake as well as for hers that he had done it. There was an insuperable barrier between them, and he was not a man with whom any compromise would be possible. There were in his nature fires which, it was evident, even he could not always keep under control. Perhaps he realized that he could not. But he had spoken, and she felt that he had spoken finally. It was not for her to question his decision. She could only go onward now through a wilderness of utter desolation. Not till they had reached the outskirts of Fordestown and the grey moors were left behind, did he speak again, and then it was to say in his customary, clipped style, “We’ll not make a tragedy of this. Life’s too short. It’s just good-bye and good luck! And that’s all.” She forced herself to smile. “Except many, many thanks!” she said. He stopped her quickly. “No, not that! Never that! Do you mind if I don’t get down at the station? I don’t like to leave the horse.” “Of course not,” she said. They finished the journey in silence. He did not so much as help her to descend. A porter came for her baggage, and at the last moment she stood on the path, looking up at him. “Good-bye!” she said. He looked down at her, his face like an iron mask. “Good-bye—and good luck! You haven’t any time to spare.” He did not see the hand she began to offer, and it fell instantly. He touched his cap with his whip and lifted the reins. In another moment he was driving swiftly out of the yard. She turned into the station with a curious sense of groping her way, and heard the porter’s cheery voice at her shoulder. “It’s all right, miss. You’ve got ten minutes to spare.” “Thank you,” said Frances, and drew a hard, deep breath. Ten minutes to spare! And then to take up the burden of life again! PART IV CHAPTER I THE LAND OF EXILE London and a cold grey pall of fog! Frances looked forth from the carriage-window and suppressed a shiver. The grim ugliness of the great buildings that bordered the line seemed to lay a clammy hand upon her. The sordid poverty of the streets was as a knell sounding in her heart. Somehow it seemed to her that there was a greater loneliness here than could be found in any solitude of the moors. It was like a gaunt spectre, menacing her. The autumn day was fading into twilight, and a dreary drizzle had begun to descend from the smoke-laden sky. She saw the gleam of it on the platforms as the train ran into the teeming terminus. And the spectre at her elbow drew closer. This was the land of exile.