How much had she heard? How long had she been standing there? Did she know how we had been degrading her? What had she gathered from my last words? She had found us haggling over her as though she were a chattel, each one trying to force the other to accept her, neither showing any sign that he desired her for himself. In the chilly room we shivered, hanging our heads. Slowly she crossed the room. Her eyes were fixed on Randall; for all the attention she paid me, I might not have been there. “You didn’t mean it. You can’t have meant it.” He lifted his head weakly, in one last effort to be firm. “But I did, Vi. It’s for your sake--for your happiness.” She flung her arms about him, holding him to her though he tried to draw back. “But you forgot----” “I forgot nothing.” “You did--there’s Dorrie.” She buried her head on his shoulder, sobbing her heart out. He eyed me sullenly. He looked an old man. Awkwardly, with a gesture that was afraid of its tenderness, he let his hand wander across her hair. She raised her face to his, clinging against him, and kissed him on the mouth. They traversed the room, going from me; their footsteps died out upon the stairs. Never once had she looked at me. In the grayness of the morning, before the servants had begun to stir, I packed my bag and left. BOOK IV--THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN _Thou hast been in Eden. Thou shalt eat the fruit of thy doings, yea, even the fruit of thy thoughts._ CHAPTER I--THE HOME-COMING Leaving the hansom at the foot of Pope Lane and carrying my bags, I walked up the avenue of limes. The wantonness of spring was in the air and its melancholy. Above the high walls the golden hurry of the sunset quivered. A breeze tore past me down the passage, twisting and turning like a madcap ballet-dancer. Overhead in the young greenness of the trees a host of sparrows fluttered, impudently publishing their love-making. At Plymouth on landing I had been met by letters from my lawyers and from Uncle Obad. They were addressed to Sir Dante Cardover. It was rather pleasant to be addressed as Sir Dante; until then I had not realized my luck. The memory of that last night at Sheba had numbed my faculties and taken my future from me. But now, with the thought of Woadley, life began to weave itself into a new pattern. On the run up to London, as the quiet of English landscapes and the greenness of English meadows drifted by, I lost my bitter sense of isolation: I belonged to this; it was part of me. At the same time, the impassive wholesomeness of English faces awoke me in a strange way to the enormity of what I had done. It was odd how far I had wandered from old traditions and old landmarks in the delirium of the past two years. Even I was a little scandalized by some of my recollections.