"Oh! My!" wailed Gladys, and went towards the door. Katherine jumped up suddenly, and gave her the ten-pound note which had been lying under a box of matches on the imitation oak dressing-chest. "Here, Gladys, get the little black frock for me just as cheaply as ever you can. Lady Garribardine will never know what it cost; she is accustomed to pay forty or fifty pounds for her evening dresses--and you keep all the rest. If--if--Bob should not be reasonable to-morrow, it might be useful for you to have some money that you need not account to Tild for--I know she looks after everything that you have got." "But you will make him, Katherine, oh! you will if you can--you are so clever--and he'll be in the train if you go by the early one. You'll have him alone." "Very well. Bring me up a slice of bread or anything you can find when you first go down; I can't stand the family breakfast, and I will just rush off by the eight-five." What she said to Mr. Bob Hartley she never told anyone--but it was extraordinarily effectual--it contained biting scorn and heavy threats. Among them, his chief should know of his conduct that very day, before he could possibly sneak off to Australia, unless he went and got a special license. The Registry Office would do very well, but by the following Wednesday Gladys must be his wife, or Katherine's scorpion whip would fall. He should be thrashed by Fred and Bert and Charlie Prodgers, too! She would have no mercy upon him--none at all. "You poor, mean, sanctimonious, miserable cur," were some of her parting words to him. "Come into this telegraph office with me and send this wire to Gladys this minute. 'Will you honour me by marrying me on Tuesday? If so, get ready.' You can pretend you had a secret wedding to save expense, and tell them at home on Christmas day." Mr. Hartley was a thorough coward; his plans were not matured enough yet to go to Australia, and his present berth was a good one, so he felt it was wiser to give in and do what he was bid. And presently Katherine got into a taxi and was whirled back to Berkeley Square, where later in the day her sister's telegram of rapturous thanks came to her. But when she was alone that night by her comfortable fire, she let a volume of Flaubert drop on her knees and looked into the coals, her thoughts going back to the painful incident. Here was a plain indication of the working of laws shown in her own case and the difference between it and that of Gladys. Alas! the piteous fate of weaklings! And then she set herself to analyse things. "Whether the accepted idea of morality is right or is wrong--of God or of man, those who break its laws are certainly drawing to themselves the frightfully strong current of millions of people's disapproval and so must run great risk of punishment." Thus she mused and then her eyes grew wide as she gazed into the glowing coals. _What_ if some day she should have to pay some price for her own deviation from recognized standards?