With freedom to look elsewhere, her eyes roved over the dressing-table, and suddenly fixed themselves upon a large, square envelope bearing her name, which stood propped against a scent bottle. In nervous haste she picked it up, and looked at it uncomprehendingly. It was unusually large and thick and addressed in an unfamiliar hand. With the same unstrung haste she turned it about between her fingers, halting with new apprehension, as she saw that its flap bore an elaborate black coronet and monogram. At last, with a strange sense of apprehension, she tore the envelope open. "CIRCE," the letter began. "I will not reproach you for deserting me. Life is too brief for reproaches--when one longs to fill it with pleasanter things. But be kind to me! Give me the opportunity of finishing that broken sentence. I shall smoke a cigar on the terrace at eleven to-night. If you are generous, wrap yourself up, and keep me company for ten minutes. I shall wait--and hope. "DEEREHURST." She read to the end, and stood for a space staring at the large, straggling writing; at last, as if suddenly imbued with the power of action, she tore the letter across--tearing and retearing it into little strips; then, throwing the fragments on the ground, she turned and fled out of the room. Milbanke's bedroom was on the same floor as her own, though separated from it by half the length of the corridor. Leaving her own apartment, she hurried towards it; and pausing outside the door, knocked softly and insistently. A delay followed her imperative summons; then Milbanke's voice came faint and nervous, demanding the intruder's name. She answered; and a moment later the door was opened with a confused sound of shooting bolts. Milbanke's appearance was slightly grotesque, as the opened door disclosed him, silhouetted against the lighted room. He was garbed in a loose dressing-gown; his scanty hair was disarranged; and there was an expression of alarm on his puckered face. But for once Clodagh was blind to these things. With a swift movement she entered the room, and closing the door, stood leaning against it. "James," she said breathlessly, "you finished your business with Mr. Barnard to-day, didn't you?" Milbanke, suddenly conscious of her white face, began to stammer. "Clodagh! my dear--my dear----" But Clodagh waved his anxiety aside. "Tell me!" she said. "It's finished, isn't it?" "Yes!--yes! But, my dear----" She threw out her hands in a sudden, vehement gesture. "Then take me away!" she cried--"take me away! Let us go in the morning, by the very first train--before any one is up." Milbanke paled. "But, my dear," he said helplessly, "I thought--I believed----" Clodagh turned to him again. "So did I!" she cried--"so did I! I thought I loved it. I thought I loved it all--the music and the gaiety and--and the people. But I don't. I hate it!--I hate it!--I hate it!"