and the grey of the castle crowning the hill above the harbour. It gave him no pleasure, even when the breeze ruffled the olives suddenly into silver, and revealed gleams of gold among the orange-groves. He hated the whole prospect for its very beauty. It was like Félicia, beautiful, changeful, cruel. After a time the keenness of the pain which possessed him became a little dulled, and he found himself resolving upon his future course. To depart at once from Nice, leaving a scathing letter of farewell for Félicia, was the plan which suggested itself first, but it was obviously incomplete. He had realised now that he had nothing to hope for from her in the way either of justice or tenderness, and it would be a mistake to allow her to declare that he had gone away in a fit of jealousy without giving her a chance of explaining matters. No, he must see her again, distasteful as the thought was. She would try, no doubt, to entangle him again in her sophistries, to wind him round with that net of cajolery into which he had walked with his eyes open, but this time it would be in vain. Never in his life had he felt so miserable, so degraded, as during the past week, when Félicia had been everything that was tender and affectionate. He had deteriorated morally since he had condoned her faithlessness for the sake of her beauty and her fascinations, but he was not the man to regard such deterioration with equanimity. He would free himself from the toils and turn his back upon Félicia for ever, returning to England wiser, if poorer, robbed, as it seemed, of one whole side of his life. He had no doubt as to his own course, but he must make it clear to Félicia that he was leaving her finally--must place the issues before her so plainly that she could not evade them or wriggle out of her responsibility. How this was to be done was the question. The moral agony through which he had passed seemed to have blunted his mental powers. His reasonings ended abruptly, as though he had come suddenly to a blank wall or fallen from a height; and though he struggled with himself, he could not arrive at any decision. He was still lying on the turf, utterly spent, his hands gripping the clods he had torn up, when a voice behind him said, “Lord Usk!” He turned angrily and sprang to his feet, enraged that any one should have observed him in this dark hour. Behind him stood a tall lady very elaborately dressed in black. Her face, with its strongly marked features and dark eyes, was handsome, though worn, and her abundant black hair was still without a thread of grey. Usk knew her well. She was the Princess Dowager of Dardania, who had shown a good deal of interest in his sister Philippa and himself two years since at Ludwigsbad.