Mrs. Mynors' mouth drooped at the corners, and her face took on the sweetest look of resignation. "Virgie, dearest, you can fancy--you can understand something of what it will cost me. But for my children's sakes I must put my own feelings aside. I must go and see what I can do. Let me see! Where--how could I meet him? A solicitor's office does not lend itself. Oh, Virgie, I have it! What a comfort, what a piece of good luck, that I became a life-member of the 'Sportswoman' three years ago! I will ask him to meet me there! I will write a note, to be given to him direct; and I don't think he will refuse. If he does, I will just go to London and take him by storm. I vow I'll see him somehow! Leave it to me, Virgie! You shall see what I can do. When my children's bread is at stake, no effort shall be too great, no sacrifice too difficult." * * * * * Later on, when Virginia had done her hair to perfection, and gone away to do the house-work, Mrs. Mynors took a chair, mounted it, and unlocked a small drawer at the top of her tall-boy. There were several bundles of letters and papers in the drawer, and a small jewel-case containing a ring. She searched among the papers for one loose envelope, addressed in a forcible, small but not cramped handwriting. She sat down, with this letter and the ring-box upon her knee, and read: _You make a mistake. It is not the transfer of your affections from myself to Mynors of which I complain, for this has not taken place. What has happened is simply that you have bartered yourself for his money and position. If I had been cursed with a few hundreds a year more than he has, you would not have forsaken me. You never loved me; but for a whole year you have succeeded in deceiving me--in making me believe that you did. This is the thing I find unpardonable. Men have killed women for such treachery as yours. Were I to kill you, it would save poor Mynors a good many years of misery. But the code of civilised morals forbids so satisfactory a solution. You must live, and destroy his illusions one by one. I ought to thank you for my freedom, but that I cannot do, being human. As a man in worse plight than mine once said: "My love hath wrought into my life so far that my doom is, I love thee still." There lies the humiliation and the sting._ The woman's lips curved into a smile of foreseen triumph. The insult of the first part of the letter was nothing to her. There was his written confession. In spite of her betrayal, he loved her still. After the lapse of all these years the lava-torrent of his boyish fury had no doubt cooled. The love might well remain. CHAPTER V THE OLD LOVE "_Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins, He ponders in frenzy o'er love's last adieu._"--Byron.