"Anthony--" I could not help feeling that her repeated change of her term of reference to me, from the formal Captain Hylton to my Christian name, sprang from an instinctive desire to put herself on more intimate terms with Lackaday--"Anthony," she said in her defiant way, "would have cried, if he could." Lackaday's features relaxed into his childlike smile. "Ah," said he, "'The little more and how much it is. The little less and how far away.'" She was silent. Although the situation was painful, I could not help feeling the ironical satisfaction that she was getting the worst of the encounter. I was glad, because I thought she had treated him cruelly. The unprecedented tears, however, were signs of grace. Yet the devil in her suggested a _riposte_. "I hope Madame Patou is quite well." Lackaday's smile faded into the mask. "Last night's thunderstorm upset her a little--but otherwise--yes--she is quite well." He rose. Lady Auriol cried: "You're not going already?" His ear caught a new tone, for he smiled again. "I must get back to Clermont-Ferrand. Goodbye, Hylton." We shook hands. "Good-bye, old chap," said I. "We'll meet soon." Auriol rose and turned on me an ignoring back. As I did not seem to exist any longer, I faded shadow-like away to the park gate, where I hung about until Auriol should join me. As to what happened between them then, I must rely on her own report, which, as you shall learn, she gave me later. They stood for a while after I had gone. Then he held out his hand. "Good-bye, Lady Auriol," said he. "No," she said. "There are things which we really ought to say to each other. You do believe I wish I had never come?" "I can quite understand," said he, stiffly. "It hurts," she said. "Why should it matter so much?" he asked. "I don't know--but it does." He drew himself up and his face grew stern. "I don't cease to be an honourable man because of my profession; or to be worthy of respect because I am loyal to sacred obligations." "You put me in the wrong," she said. "And I deserve it. But it all hurts. It hurts dreadfully. Can't you see? The awful pity of it? You of all men to be condemned to a fife like this. And you suffer too. It all hurts." "Remember," said he, "it was the life to which I was bred." She felt hopeless. "It's my own fault for coming," she said. "I should have left things as they were when we parted in April. There was beauty--you made it quite clear that our parting was final. You couldn't have acted otherwise. Forgive me for all I've said. I pride myself on being a practical woman; but--for that reason perhaps--I'm unused to grappling with emotional situations. If I've been unkind, it's because I've been stabbing myself and forgetting I'm stabbing you at the same time." He walked a pace or two further with her. For the first time he seemed to recognize what he, Andrew Lackaday, had meant to her.