As Eleanor Carey strained her beautiful eyes in wakeful memories that night, the one memory that remained to her was Geoffrey Ripon. When she forced herself to close them, and tried to dream, the one dream was the dream of Geoffrey dying for his friend and laying his broken sword at the feet of his King. When she tried to think of his picture, the one picture she could bear to look upon was Geoffrey Ripon. It had come to this. All the scheming and the passion of the world, and the hard ambition, the cold, worldly will that lifted her almost to a seat upon the throne--they brought her so far and left her at the feet of her old lover. This was all. When Mrs. Carey rose her mind was made up--this time shall we call it for good or evil? Evil, yes; but not the same evil as yesterday's, nor the evil of to-morrow. Her headache was feigned. Leaving this answer with her maid to any inquiries, she stepped out in the early morning into the streets. It was not hard for her to find out Geoffrey's hotel. It was a lovely morning in April, before the east wind had sprung up from the sea, and as she passed through the gardens the crocuses and the little blue flowers looked up to her as if they smiled--as if they, too, remembered other days. Mrs. Carey drew her veil about her face and walked the faster. Geoffrey had got up that morning as one who arises in a world that is void. His mission to see the King was ended; now there was nothing left. He owed to Margaret Windsor his liberty; with that gift she had richly given all that his friendship could claim. And at the time she had nobly told him, frankly, kindly, like a true American woman, that here it all must end. She was to be married; and he, Geoffrey Ripon, was left--free. But he loved her still; he loved her, and there was no hope in it. What, then, was left to him? As he bitterly asked the question aloud, some one opened the door of his room. Mrs. Oswald Carey entered. "Mrs. Carey!" "Geoffrey!" Both were silent, and each stood looking at the other. Never had she been more beautiful than then. Her old self-possession had gone; there was a feminine weakness in her attitude, or quiver of the limbs, a heaving of the breast that made her seem different from the Mrs. Carey of late years, and beneath the long, trembling lashes he saw her eyes glorious with the glamour as of youth, tenfold more potent. For a long time, it seemed, he stood looking at her. At last her strength seemed to give way, and sinking into a chair she took his hand and kissed it. Then Geoffrey broke from her. "This is no place for you," he said, coldly.