One instant, she had stretched out her hand towards them; the next, she had turned away, sick with the sense of impotence, of loathing, of immeasurable disdain. What weapons could avail against the impenetrable hide of such a man? "She never cared for him," a vindictive voice whispered to her from the depths of her heart. Then she shrank back afraid before the hatred which held possession of her soul. The passion which had animated her on the fateful evening of Phyllis's flight, the very strength which had caused her to prevail, seemed to her fearful and hideous things. She would fain have put the thought of them away; have banished them and all recollection of Darrell from her mind for ever. It was a bleak December morning, with a touch of east wind in the air, when Phyllis was laid in her last resting-place. To Gertrude all the sickening details of the little pageant were as the shadows of a nightmare. Standing rigid as a statue by the open grave, she was aware of nothing but the sweet, stifling fragrance of tuberose, which seemed to have detached itself from, and prevailed over, the softer scents of rose and violet, and to float up unmixed from the flower-covered coffin. Lucy stood on one side of her, silent and pale with down-dropt eyes; Fanny sobbed vociferously on the other. Lord Watergate faced them with bent head. The tears rolled down Fred Devonshire's face as the burial service proceeded. Aunt Caroline looked like a vindictive ghost. Uncle Septimus wept silently. It seemed a hideous act of cruelty to turn away at last and leave the poor child lying there alone, while the sexton shovelled the loose earth on to her coffin; hideous, but inevitable; and at midday Gertrude and Lucy drove back in the dismal coach to Baker Street, where Mr. Maryon had put up alternate shutters in the shop-window, and the umbrella-maker had drawn down his blinds. Gertrude, as she lay awake that night, heard the rain beating against the window-panes, and shuddered. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XXII. HOPE AND A FRIEND. _Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love._ SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. Gertrude was sitting by the window with Constance Devonshire one bleak January afternoon. Conny's face wore a softened look. The fierce, rebellious misery of her heart had given place to a gentler grief, the natural human sorrow for the dead. This was a farewell visit. The next day she and her family were setting out for the South of France. "I tried to make Fred come with me to-day," Constance was saying; "but he is dining with some kindred spirits at the Cafe Royal, and then going on to the Gaiety. He said there would be no time."