Life is so simple to people of the old civilization. The rules are laid down so broadly and plainly, and the conscience they have created answers so readily when appealed to. But for these poor instructed persons, what a complex affair has morality become! Hard enough for men, but for women desperate indeed. Each must be her own casuist, and without any criterion save what she can establish by her own experience. The growth of Cecily's mind had removed her further and further from simplicity of thought; this was in part the cause of that perpetual sense of weariness to which she awoke day after day. Communion with such a man as Elgar strengthened the natural tendency, until there was scarcely a motive left to which she could yield without discussing it in herself, consciously or unconsciously. Her safeguard was an innate nobleness of spirit. But it is not to every woman of brains that this is granted. "What I did," she said at length slowly, "was done, no doubt, in a moment of weakness; I gave way to the need of sympathy. Had my friend been a man of less worth, he might have misunderstood me, and then I might indeed have been shamed. But I knew him and trusted him." "Which means, that you were false to me in a way I never was to you. It is you who have broken the vow we made to be faithful to each other." "I cannot read in your heart. If you still love me, it is a pity; I can give you no love in return." He drew nearer, and looked at her despairingly. "Cecily! when I came last night, I had a longing to throw myself at your feet, and tell you all my misery--everything, and find strength again with your help. I never feared _this_. You, who are all love and womanliness, you cannot have put me utterly from your heart!" "I am your wife still; but I ask nothing of you, and you must not seek for more than I can give." "Well, I too ask for nothing, But I will prove--" She checked him. "Don't forget your philosophy. We both of us know that it is idle to make promises of that kind." "You will leave London with me?" "I shall go wherever you wish." "Then we will make our home again in Paris. The sooner the better. A few days, and we will get rid of everything except what we wish to take with us. I don't care if I never see London again." In the evening, Cecily was again at the Denyers' house. Madeline lay without power of speech, and seemed gradually sinking into unconsciousness. Mrs. Denyer had been telegraphed for; a reply had come, saying that she would be home very soon, but already a much longer time than was necessary had passed, and she did not arrive. Zillah sat by the bed weeping, or knelt in prayer. "If your mother does not come," Cecily said to her, "I will stay all night. It's impossible for you to be left alone." "She must surely come; and Barbara too. How can they delay so long?"