As Kate Clephane drove up late that night to the house in Fifth Avenue she seemed to be reliving all her former anguished returns there, real or imaginary, from the days when she had said to herself: “Shall I never escape?” to those others when, from far off, she had dreamed of the hated threshold, and yearned for it, and thought: “Shall I never get back?” She had said she might be late in returning, and had begged that no one should stay up for her. Her wish, as usual, had been respected, and she let herself into the hushed house, put out the lights, and stole up past the door where Anne lay sleeping her last young sleep. Ah, that thought of Anne’s awakening! The thought of seeing Anne’s face once again in all its radiant unawareness, and then assisting helpless at the darkening of its light! How would the blow fall? Suddenly and directly, or gradually, circuitously? Would the girl learn her fate on the instant, or be obliged to piece it together, bit by bit, through all the slow agonies of conjecture? What pretext would Chris give for the break? He was skilled enough in evasions and subterfuges--but what if he had decided to practise them on Anne’s mother, and not on Anne? What if the word he had given were already forfeited? What assurance had any promise of his ever conveyed? Kate Clephane sat in her midnight room alone with these questions. She had forgotten to go to bed, she had forgotten to undress. She sat there, in her travelling dress and hat, as she had stepped from the train: it was as if this house which people called her own were itself no more than the waiting-room of a railway station where she was listening for the coming of another train that was to carry her--whither? Ah, but she had forgotten--forgotten that she had him in her power! She had said to him: “I’ve got the means to beat you in the end,” and he had bowed his head to the warning and given his word. Why, the mere threat that she would tell his mother had thrown him on her mercy--what would it be if she were to threaten to tell Anne? She knew him ... under all his emancipated airs, his professed contempt for traditions and conformities, lurked an uneasy fear of being thought less than his own romantic image of himself.... No; even if his designs on Anne were wholly interested, it would kill him to have her know. There was no danger there. The bitterness of death was passed; yes--but the bitterness of what came after? What of the time to come, when mother and daughter were left facing each other like two ghosts in a gray world of disenchantment? Well, the girl was young--time would help--they would travel.... Ah, no; her tortured nerves cried out that there could not be, in any woman’s life, another such hour as the one she had just lived through! Toward dawn she roused herself, undressed, and crawled into bed; and there she lay in the darkness, sharpening her aching wits for the continuation of the struggle. * * * * *