With Alexis lost to her forever, life offered a terrifying nothingness. She realized perhaps for the first time what he had meant to her ever since she could remember. Without him, existence would be a nightmare of emptiness, and yet with every revolution of the wheels she was leaving him further and further behind, progressing into the wintry region of exile where lay her bleak future. And her days and years had been so filled with his presence that it was almost impossible for her to believe that this could be so. It was as if some vital organ had been torn out of her living body and she was expected to go on without it. It was humanly impossible! In another moment she must speak to the driver, tell him to turn back up the mountain before it was too late. Back to Alexis and the beautiful, hateful woman, whom he had grown to love--this superior goddess, this Brunhilde of burnished tresses, who would have it all her own way on her mountain top, above the clouds, while she herself rode down into the dark valley. But she could not bring herself to utter the necessary word. And she knew that it would never be spoken, trifle as she might with the illusion. The unalterable had occurred. She would make no further effort to mend the shattered pieces. But how to face the lacerated future? To resume a negative existence with a contemptuous aunt who had never loved her and whom she had failed, would be beyond bearing. To accept her charity and Alexis' had not been difficult before because she had made herself indispensable, and she knew that she had more than earned her keep. Besides, she had been Alexis' only companion in his leisure moments and he had depended upon her more than anyone realized. But everything was changed. To continue to eat his bread and salt would be unspeakable now that he loved another woman. She had not only failed miserably as a wife, but he loved another woman. Looking blindly into the forest on either side, Claire repeated the words to herself below her breath. "He loves another woman." They dinned into her soul with a persistency that maddened, with the relentless monotony of the drop of water which tortures the Chinese criminal. She crouched further back into the seat and covered her ears. If the repetition continued much longer, she would surely go mad, if she had not done so already. The wheels took up the rhythm and creaked it mockingly. As they rattled over the wooden bridge and entered the village it rose to a hoarse shout. Then with a jerk, stopped as suddenly and ominously as it had commenced. Claire looked up startled, and saw they were at the station. The New York train was already there, snorting impatiently. She came to her senses with a bound, paid her driver, got aboard the Pullman and in less than a minute was leaving the country station and Alexis, as she told herself, forever.