Suddenly she saw the thing, as she fancied, and indeed said half aloud to herself, "in a common-sense light." Her face worked horribly, though she was quite unconscious of it. "It's better that one person, especially one that's been as bad as I have, should go to hell than hundreds and thousands of others." And then her decision was taken. The light died out of her face, the hope also. She became old in a sudden moment. And, with one despairing prayer for forgiveness, she began to walk towards her cottage--there was a fast train to town. She believed that there could hardly be forgiveness for her act, and yet the thought of "the others" gave her strength to sin. And so, out of her great love for Christ, this poor harlot set out to sin a sin which she thought would take Him away from her for ever. END OF BOOK II BOOK III " ... Woman fearing and trembling" CHAPTER I WHAT IT MEANT TO THE WORLD'S WOMEN In her house in the older, early-Victorian remnants of Kensington, Mrs. Hubert Armstrong sat at breakfast. Her daughter, a pretty, unintellectual girl, was pouring out tea with a suggestion of flippancy in her manner. The room was grave and somewhat formal. Portraits of Matthew Arnold, Professor Green, and Mark Pattison hung upon the sombre, olive walls. Over the mantel-shelf, painted in ornamental chocolate-coloured letters, the famous authoress's pet motto was austerely blazoned,-- "_The decisive events of the world take place in the intellect._" Indeed, save for the bright-haired girl at the urn, the room struck just that note. It would be difficult to imagine an ordinary conversation taking place there. It was a place in which solid chunks of thought were gravely handed about. Mrs. Armstrong wore a flowing morning wrap of dark red material. It was clasped at the smooth white throat by a large cameo brooch, a dignified bauble once the property of George Eliot. The clear, steady eyes, the smooth bands of shining hair, the full, calm lips of the lady were all eloquent of splendid unemotional health, assisted by a careful system of hygiene. She was opening her letters, cutting the envelopes carefully with a silver knife. "Shall I give you some more tea, Mother?" the daughter asked in a somewhat impatient voice. The offer was declined, and the girl rose to go. "I'm off now to skate with the Tremaines at Henglers," she said, and hurriedly left the room. Mrs. Armstrong sighed in a sort of placid wonder, as Minerva might have sighed coming suddenly upon Psyche running races with Cupid in a wood, and turned to another letter. It was written in firm, strong writing on paper headed with some official-looking print. THE WORLD'S WOMAN'S LEAGUE LONDON HEADQUARTERS, 100 REGENT STREET, S. W. SECRETARY, MISS PAULL