She could not, as yet, bear to think deliberately of Darrow; but she kept on repeating to herself “By and bye that will come too.” Even now she was determined not to let his image be distorted by her suffering. As soon as she could, she would try to single out for remembrance the individual things she had liked in him before she had loved him altogether. No “spiritual exercise” devised by the discipline of piety could have been more torturing; but its very cruelty attracted her. She wanted to wear herself out with new pains... XXXI The sound of Miss Painter’s latch-key made her start. She was still a bundle of quivering fears to whom each coming moment seemed a menace. There was a slight interval, and a sound of voices in the hall; then Miss Painter’s vigorous hand was on the door. Anna stood up as she came in. “You’ve found him?” “I’ve found Sophy.” “And Owen?--has she seen him? Is he here?” “SHE’S here: in the hall. She wants to speak to you.” “Here--NOW?” Anna found no voice for more. “She drove back with me,” Miss Painter continued in the tone of impartial narrative. “The cabman was impertinent. I’ve got his number.” She fumbled in a stout black reticule. “Oh, I can’t--” broke from Anna; but she collected herself, remembering that to betray her unwillingness to see the girl was to risk revealing much more. “She thought you might be too tired to see her: she wouldn’t come in till I’d found out.” Anna drew a quick breath. An instant’s thought had told her that Sophy Viner would hardly have taken such a step unless something more important had happened. “Ask her to come, please,” she said. Miss Painter, from the threshold, turned back to announce her intention of going immediately to the police station to report the cabman’s delinquency; then she passed out, and Sophy Viner entered. The look in the girl’s face showed that she had indeed come unwillingly; yet she seemed animated by an eager resoluteness that made Anna ashamed of her tremors. For a moment they looked at each other in silence, as if the thoughts between them were packed too thick for speech; then Anna said, in a voice from which she strove to take the edge of hardness: “You know where Owen is, Miss Painter tells me.” “Yes; that was my reason for asking you to see me.” Sophy spoke simply, without constraint or hesitation. “I thought he’d promised you--” Anna interposed. “He did; but he broke his promise. That’s what I thought I ought to tell you.” “Thank you.” Anna went on tentatively: “He left Givre this morning without a word. I followed him because I was afraid...” She broke off again and the girl took up her phrase. “You were afraid he’d guessed? He HAS...” “What do you mean--guessed what?” “That you know something he doesn’t ... something that made you glad to have me go.” “Oh--” Anna moaned. If she had wanted more pain she had it now. “He’s told you this?” she faltered.