The chimes of St. Michael's came through the open window but they were unheeded. When she had read through all the letters she picked out one. The one containing the passionate declaration of Juliet's love. She re-read it and then placed it on the table on top of the others. If she could speak of Richard like that! But she could do nothing and say nothing. It is one of the curses of womanhood that a woman may not say to a man "I love you," that the initiative is taken out of her hands. Phyl was a creature of impulse and it was now for the first time in her life that she recognised this fatal barrier on the woman's side. With the recognition came the impulse to over jump it. He cared for her, she knew, or had cared for her. She felt that it only required a movement on her side, a touch, a word to destroy the ice that had formed between them. If he were to go away he might never return, nay, he would never return, of that she felt sure. And he would go away unless she spoke. She must speak, not to-morrow in the cold light of day when things were impossible, but now, at once, she would say to him simply the truth, "I love you." If he were to turn away or repulse her it would kill her. No matter, life was absolutely nothing. She rose from her chair and was just on the point of turning to the door when something checked her. It was the clock of St. Michael's striking one. One o'clock. The whole household would be in bed. He would have retired to his room long ago--and to-morrow it would be too late. She could never say that to him to-morrow; even now the impulse was dying away, the strength that would have broken convention and disregarded all things was fading in her. She had been dreaming whilst she ought to have been doing, and the hour had passed and would never return. She sat down again in the chair. The moon in the cloudless sky outside cast a patch of silver on the floor, then it shewed a silver rim gradually increasing against the sky as it pushed its way through the night to peep in at Phyl. Leaning back in the chair limp and exhausted, with closed eyes, one might have fancied her dead or in a trance and the moon as if to make sure pushed on, framing itself now fully in the window space. The clock of St. Michael's struck two, then it chimed the quarter after and almost on the chime Phyl sat up. It was as though she had suddenly come to a resolve. She clasped her hands together for a moment, then she rose, gathered up the letters and put them away, all except one which she held in her hand as though to give her courage for what she was about to do. She carefully extinguished the lamp and then led by the moonlight came out on to the piazza. Charleston was asleep under the moon; the air was filled with the scent of night jessamine and the faint fragrance of foliage, and scarcely a sound came from all the sleeping city beyond the garden walls and the sea beyond the city.