It seemed to her right--nay, but common justice--that she should suffer; but she hated to think of Keith being condemned to like torture, of the shame that would be about his life, did her husband carry out his threat. Where, indeed, would the results of this fatal love end? To what depths of misery had it not led, and still seemed to be leading them? Divorce had always seemed to Lauraine a shameful thing--a necessary evil sometimes, but still something with a stigma of disgrace, that, whether merited or not, always dogged and haunted a woman all her life. And now she could plainly see to what end her husband and Lady Jean were driving her as their scapegoat. By her means they wished to vindicate themselves; and, remembering how easily their plot might have been carried out, she shudders and turns sick with loathing and shame unutterable. Keith, in his weakness and loneliness, might have been enticed here apparently by her wish. There would have been hours of languor and convalescence, during which they would have been together--hours when the softness of pity in her own heart and the awakened memories of his would have held all the old power, and all the long fought-against danger. But she sees still that the plot is not defeated, that she has a subtle foe to combat, and in all her scorn and wrath Lauraine yet feels the miserable conviction of her own impotence oppressing her. The hours pass. Of time she takes no count or heed; only lies there prostrate and sick at heart, and desolate, and ashamed; feeling that a great crisis in her life has come, and she cannot tell how to deal with it. The luncheon-bell rings, but she sends a message that she is ill and cannot come downstairs. Another hour passes, and still she does not move, only lies there in a sort of stupor of misery and bewilderment. There comes a gentle knock at the door, and she hears Lady Etwynde's voice asking permission to enter. Wearily enough she gives it. All sympathy seems useless to her, and her friend's perfect happiness seems to show up in but sharper contrast her own wretched life. Lady Etwynde guesses instinctively that something is wrong. Neither Lady Jean nor Lauraine has appeared at luncheon, and Sir Francis has looked like a human thundercloud all the time. She comes forward now and kneels by Lauraine's side. "What has happened, dear?" she asks. "Are you ill?" "Ill enough in mind," answers Lauraine, and then she tells her all. Lady Etwynde listens in silence, but her beautiful eyes grow dark with indignation and scorn. "It is all that hateful woman, of course," she says at last. "Oh, my dear, my dear, what will you do now?" "I cannot tell," says Lauraine despairingly. "Accept such an outrage as this, I cannot, and yet if I insist--well, I told you his threat."