And, standing in this new light, Gore became an ideal, a being apart, endowed with endless power to inspire high deeds. An idealist born, Clodagh was created to make-believe. The make-believes were probably the swaying of an impulsive mind from one emotional pole to the other; but in this case, at least, benefit accrued. She developed a sudden gentle tolerance of Milbanke--an altogether unprecedented care for his comfort and well-being. The working of this profoundly subtle emotion was far too deep to be even guessed at by herself. And had any student of human nature told her that the new tenderness for the timid, unassuming husband, who made so few demands upon her consideration, arose from the fact that another man had crossed her life--rousing at once her imagination, her antagonism, and her admiration, showing her new depths in the world around her, new possibilities within herself--she would have been both incredulous and indignant. But no student of human nature visited the villa. And she lived undisturbed in her atmosphere of dreams. Whether the vague, subconscious thought that Gore, away in his own world, might hear of her graver attitude towards life and might secretly approve, ever lent zest to her self-imposed duties, it would have been impossible to say; but certain it is that if the thought came, it came unbidden and stayed unrecognised. And now Milbanke was dead. And life--not the mythical life of memories, of dreams, even of ideals, but the life of hope and warm human possibilities--was hers, as it had been long ago, before her husband's name had ever been spoken in her presence. Her mind was at peace, as she drove through the narrow streets of Paris, with their cheerful characteristic chorus of shouting newsvendors, and cracking whips. The hotel she had chosen was a small one, close to the Place Vendome; and when her fiacre stopped and she entered the vestibule, her sense of pleasure and contentment increased. The quiet air of the place contrasted agreeably with her previous experience of hotel life. Still conscious of this impression of security, she turned away from the bureau where she had registered her name, and crossed the vestibule to the lift. Taking her place on the velvet-covered seat, she watched the attendant close the iron doors and turn to set the lift in motion. But at the moment that he laid his hand upon the button, she saw the swinging doors of the hotel open, to admit a lady. The new-comer, seeing that the lift was about to ascend, hurried towards it; and Clodagh, idly interested by the sound of rustling silk, leaned forward in her seat. But the light in the vestibule was dim, and she caught nothing beyond the outline of a large hat and the suggestion of a pale green dress. Then, suddenly, the stranger spoke, and her heart gave a tremendous leap. "Wait!" she called in French--"wait! I am coming!"