Madame Koller sat down discontentedly on the sofa. When Pembroke had arrived that afternoon her intention had been to determine one thing or another--for life at The Beeches could not be endured much longer. It mattered little what old Madame Schmidt said, but her cousin, Ahlberg, was getting restive and threatened to leave her--and she was mortally afraid of being left in America alone. But what progress had she made? None. And suppose Pembroke were to leave that house her lover, would it not be the greatest act of folly she had ever committed?--and she had had her follies. And so she was tossed hither and thither by prudence and feeling, and condemning her own weakness, yet tamely submitted to it. Meanwhile, Pembroke had decided for himself. This thing could go on no longer. He felt at that moment as if he had had enough of love-making to last him for the next ten years. And besides, he had withstood enough to make him feel that he did not care to withstand any more. So he picked up his hat with an air of great determination. “I must leave you,” he said. “Elise, you have given me many happy hours, but it would be ruin for us to become either more or less than friends.” Madame Koller had thought herself thoroughly prepared for this, which her own sense told her was literally true. But suddenly, without a moment’s warning, without her own volition, and almost without her knowledge, she burst into violent weeping. Was it for this she had come the interminable distance--that she had suffered horrors of loneliness and ennui? Alas, for her! Pembroke was appalled. Apparently all was to do over again, but there was no longer any room for weakness. His mind was made up and could not be unmade. He only stood silent, therefore, biting his lip, while his face grew crimson. For the first time in his life he hailed Ahlberg as a relief--for at that moment Ahlberg appeared on the threshold. Madame Koller pulled herself together as quickly as she had given way. “Ah, Louis, you are welcome. Do not go yet,” to Pembroke. Pembroke did not take the hint. He went immediately. CHAPTER X. THE sudden pang which wrenched poor Mr. Cole’s heart when he heard that Madame Koller would soon leave the county, and the country as well, was vain suffering. For Madame Koller did not go. Old Madame Schmidt for the first time became restless. Ahlberg protested that he could not stay any longer. Pembroke had become entirely at ease about Ahlberg. Apparently Ahlberg was in no hurry to carry out that rash engagement to fight, which Pembroke regarded on his own part as a piece of consummate folly, and was heartily ashamed of. He did not feel the slightest apprehension that, if the truth got out, his personal courage would be suspected, because that had been tested during the war, but he was perfectly willing to let Ahlberg’s arm take as long to recover as it chose, and called himself a fool every time he thought about the roadside quarrel.