The wild, irresponsible worldliness, the thoughtless vices of the smart woman, the slangy conversation and the loudness of voice that was one of the hall-marks of her go-ahead circle, had now all given place to a quietness of manner and a thoughtful seriousness that utterly amazed me. In her peril, whatever it was, the stern realities of life had risen before her. She no longer looked at men and things through rose-coloured spectacles, she frankly admitted to me, but now saw the grim seriousness of life around her. Dull drab Camberwell had been to her an object-lesson, showing her that there were other peoples and other spheres beside that gay world around Grosvenor Square, or bridge parties at country houses. Yet she had, alas! learned the lesson too late. Misfortune had fallen upon her, and now she was crushed, hopeless, actually seriously contemplating suicide. This latter fact caused me the most intense anxiety. Apparently her interview with Arthur Rumbold's mother had caused her to decide to take her life. The fact of Parham having found her in Glasgow was, of course, a serious _contretemps_, but the real reason of her decision to die was the outcome of her meeting with Mrs Rumbold. What had passed between the two women? Was their meeting at Fort William a pre-arranged one, or was it accidental? It must have been pre-arranged, or she would scarcely have gone in the opposite direction to that of which she left word for me. The situation was now growing more serious every moment. As we stood together there I asked her to release me from my imposture as her husband, but at the mere suggestion she cried,-- "Ah! no, Wilfrid! You surely will not desert me now--just at the moment when I most need your protection." "But in what way can this pretence of our marriage assist you?" "It does--it will," she assured me. "You do not know the truth, or my motive would be quite plain to you. I have trusted you, and I still trust in you that you will not desert or betray me." "Betray you? Why, Tibbie, what are you saying?" I asked, surprised. Could I betray her? I admired her, but I did not love her. How could I love her when I recollected the awful charge against her? "Do you suspect that I would play you false, as some of your friends have done?" I asked, looking steadily into her fine eyes. "No, no; forgive me, Wilfrid," she exclaimed earnestly, returning my gaze. "I sometimes don't know what I am saying. I only mean that--you will not leave me." "And yet you asked me to go back to London only a few minutes ago!" I said in a voice of reproach. "I think I'm mad!" she cried. "This mystery is so puzzling, so inscrutable, and so full of horror that it is driving me insane." "Then to you also it is a mystery!" I cried, utterly amazed at her words. "I thought you were fully aware of the whole truth."