A passion of tears and rage swept over her, and she cowered back in the taxi, weeping and beating the air with her small hands clenched. They had taken him away from her, they had made him hate her, and this girl--this girl with the superior look and the calm, sweet face--she would have him! That was the bitterest drop in Fanchon’s cup of gall. It was that which set her to shaking and choking with rage and grief. William had passed her, he had not even looked at her. He had been to see Virginia! Fanchon stared at the ring on her finger. It seemed to fascinate her. Then she became aware of the laboring sound of the taxi. They were traveling along a rough road. Here it was ascending, and the motor-engine puffed and bellowed, and wheezed like a whale in a trough of the sea. She leaned forward and looked out again. The road led through a wood. She could discern the slender stems of young trees in ever increasing ranks. Ahead of them a stream ran down to a bridge. The sight of the water dashing over the stones brought a new purpose to mind. She called to the chauffeur. “Stop! I want to get out here.” He slowed down and stopped the machine, looking surprised. Fanchon opened the door and sprang lightly to the ground. “Wait,” she said quickly, authoritatively. “I’ll be back in a minute.” The man stared, but he waited obediently. He had an idea that the lady was a little eccentric; but she was a beauty, and she was famous. He had been delighted to drive off with her in his cab. He leaned out now and watched her surreptitiously; but she had turned into the brush, and he lost sight of her small figure. She was so small that she was easily lost in the low growth of sumac. Fanchon knew that he was watching her. She checked an impulse to go straight down to the brook in plain sight of the road. She turned, instead, and followed a path that led her to a still pool. The water was clear, and she could see the pebbles in the sandy bottom. It was scarcely a foot deep, but the place was hidden, and it would serve her purpose well. She stepped out on a stone at the edge of the pool, and stood a moment staring down into it, panting a little, her lips moving. Her small, black-clad figure, her white face, and her wild, beautiful eyes had a startling effect. There was something sylvan about her, and the sylvan landscape framed her well; but she had, too, the look of a sorceress weaving a spell. Slowly, deliberately, as if she performed a rite, she drew the wedding-ring off her finger, held it aloft a moment, and then, with a gesture more eloquent than words, she flung it into the pool. “_C’est fini!_” she cried, choking and sobbing.