Mrs. Bonfill knew that she saw before her a beaten man. All pleasure had gone from her now; the scene was purely painful; she had liked and helped the man. But she had her message to deliver, even as it had come to her. He must resign in three days--or article, letter, and Alured Cummins! That was the alternative she had to put before him. 'You've too many irons in the fire, Beaufort,' said she with a shake of her head and a friendly smile. 'One thing clashes with another.' He dropped into a chair, and sat looking before him moodily. 'There'll be plenty left. You'll have your seat still; and you'll be free to give all your time to business and make a career there.' Still he said nothing. She forced herself to go on. 'It should be done at once. We all think so. Then it'll have an entirely voluntary look.' Still he was mute. 'It must be done in three days, Beaufort,' she half-whispered, leaning across towards him. 'In three days, or--or no arrangement can be made.' She waited a moment, then added, 'Go and write it this afternoon. And send a little paragraph round--about pressure of private business, or something, you know. Then I should take a rest somewhere, if I were you.' He was to vanish--from official life for ever, from the haunts of men till men had done talking about him. Mrs. Bonfill's delicacy of expression was not guilty of obscuring her meaning in the least. She knew that her terms were accepted when he took his hat and bade her farewell with a dreary heavy awkwardness. On his departure she heaved a sigh of complicated feelings: satisfaction that the thing was done, sorrow that it had to be, wonder at him, surprise at her own mistake about him. She had put him in his place; she had once thought him worthy of her dearest Trix Trevalla. These latter reflections tempered her pride in the achievements of her diplomacy, and moderated to a self-depreciatory tone the reports which she proceeded to write to Mr. Liffey and to Constantine Blair.