"You mustn't come here any more," she found the strength to tell him--and not till then had she realised how very dear he had become to her. "I'm so sorry, Guy--so dreadfully sorry." He fell at her feet, imploring her anew. He broke down, and besought one kiss before he left her. Her misery was deeper than his as she bent to him, but the boy didn't know it. "My God," he sobbed, "I adore you--and you kiss me as if you were my mother!" The mirror provided no comfort in her loss. She stared, lonely, at the alien face reflected--stared at it, by slow degrees, with aversion. It was not she. The unlovely form and jaded mind were she--the spent passion, and the infirmities. What benefit was the face of youth without youth's pulses? The mirror mocked her weary thoughts each day. Upon her grief a woman, white-lipped and shaken, intruded to upbraid her. "You have ruined my son's career," she said. "He neglects his work, he thinks of nothing but you. I hope and pray you may be punished as you deserve!" "At Guy's age a career is not ruined by a foolish attachment," pleaded madame de Val Fleury piteously. "And at yours such an answer is abominable," cried the other. "You do not lessen your guilt by cynicism. If ever a girl encouraged a young man, you encouraged my son. Foolish as his devotion to you may be, he _is_ devoted to you. By what right did you tempt him to come here constantly if you had no tenderness for him? Your treatment of him has been infamous." "As a mother, do you know only one kind of tenderness, madame? My affection for your son was true and great. My interest in his future was no less deep than yours. I swear to you that what has happened distresses me so much that I have been able to think of nothing else." Madame Verne advanced upon her with clenched hands. "Your hypocrisy is even more revolting than your cynicism. If I know more than one kind of tenderness? Yes. But not in a girl for a young man! You swear to me you are distressed. _I_ swear to _you_ something else. My boy is all I have--and I am frightened for him; I do not know what he may do in his despair. If I lose him he shall be revenged. Take care, madame de Beaulieu. If you hear of his death, take care! The very next day, if possible, or the next month, or the next year--whenever I can reach you--as Heaven is my witness, I will mark that face of yours with vitriol." She rang the bell, and went--and the maid that entered found her mistress in a swoon upon the floor.