Ann sat down obediently, feeling as though she were living and moving in a dream. Once she glanced almost apprehensively towards the small heap of bills on the table. Yes, they were still there. Those narrow strips of paper which spelt for Tony a fresh chance in life and for herself release from any future domination of Brett Forrester's. Not yet could she realise the full wonder and joy of it--all the splendour of life and love which their mere presence there gave back to her. For the moment she was only conscious of an extraordinary calm--like the quiescence which succeeds relief from physical agony, when the senses, dulled by suffering, are for a short space contented with the mere absence of actual pain. At first she fixed her eyes almost unseeingly on Cara, as the latter began to recount the events of the previous evening, but swiftly a look of attention dawned in them. The realities of life were coming back to her, and by the time Cara had finished her story--beginning with the sending of the telegram in Brett's name and ending with the final surrender of the notes of hand--she had grasped the significance of what had happened. "And you did this--risked so much--for me?" she said, trembling a little. "Oh, Cara!" Cara was silent a moment. Then she leaned forward. "Not only for you, Ann," she said gently, "Do you remember my telling you that a woman once--jilted Eliot Coventry?" Ann's startled eyes met the grave, sorrowful ones of the woman who bent towards her. But she averted them quickly. Something--some fine, instinctive understanding forbade that she should look at her just then. "Yes" she answered, hardly above her breath. Cara hesitated. Then she spoke, unevenly, and with a slight, difficult pause now and again between her words. "I was that woman. I--robbed him of his belief in things--of his chance of happiness. I didn't realise all I was doing at the time. But afterwards--I knew.... Ever since then, I've wanted to give it back to him--all that I robbed him of. I made his life bitter--and I wanted to make it sweet again. To give him back his happiness.... Last night, I paid my debt." Ann had been listening with bent head. Now she lifted it, and her eyes held a terrible questioning. Behind the questioning lay terror--the terror of one who sees a heaven regained suddenly barred away. "Then he ... you...." She could not even formulate the aching demand of her whole soul and body. But Cara understood. Love had taught her all there was to know of love. "Eliot's love for me died ten years ago," she said simply. "And yours?" asked Ann painfully. "Not yours. Or you wouldn't--you couldn't--have done this--for him." For an instant Cara closed her eyes. Then she spoke, with white lips, but with a quiet, steadfast decision that carried absolute conviction.