"We, as always kep' ourselves respectable, and never knew what it was to blush for any of our stock, and she 'as lifted the family, and married a good, real gentleman like yourself, sir, to bring disgrace and ruin on 'er 'appy 'ome. Oh! my, oh! my, the poor misguided lass!" Philip, in his own agony, finds himself comforting the weeping woman, and praying her to bear up. Then, as she dries her streaming eyes, clasping his hand with a hoarse "God bless you, Mr. Roche," he hastens away with bent head and throbbing brow back over the green grass. No curse rises to his silent lips; he is as one who has just heard of the sudden death of his dearest upon earth. Everything seems slipping from him. There is a long stretch of blank life before his bloodshot eyes. He waits in a state of nervous prostration on a wooden bench at Copthorne Station till the return train to town appears. Then he staggers forward into the first empty carriage, buries his face on the cushions, and sobs. His strong frame shakes like a reed with the violence of his grief. He is weak, too, from having fasted since the previous night, and does not attempt to control his sorrow. The maddening thought of Eleanor and Quinton together adds gall and wormwood to the desolation in the deserted husband's heart. "With Quinton!" He repeats the words, grinding his teeth. Quinton, the low scoundrel, the fast, fascinating man of bad reputation, the villain who has betrayed his wife, his angel, and dragged her to the lowest depths of degradation! She is beyond Philip's help now, and he knows it--beyond redemption! The Rubicon has been crossed. Eleanor is among the lost--on the other side! Erminie is sitting under the pale light of a yellow lamp, deep in a novel. The heroine is wavering on the verge of an irredeemable error, and Erminie's kind heart is thoroughly in the book. She is a sympathetic reader, and her eyes moisten as they scan the pages. She is guilty of serious skipping, and as steps are heard in the hall below, glances at the finish. A sigh of relief escapes her. "Oh, I am glad she didn't! I am glad she is saved!" exclaims Mrs. Lane involuntarily, rising, as she thinks, to meet Nelson, since this is his hour to return. Instead, Philip stands before her, white as a corpse. His haggard features are accentuated by the mellow lamp light, his figure sways, tottering till he steadies himself by grasping the back of a chair. He has not tasted food that day, and she fancies he looks shrunken, marvelling at his altered appearance. She dares not ask him what has happened, but just gazes with wondering sympathy into his miserable eyes. "It has come," he gasps, passing one hand over his brow. "What?" murmurs Erminie, under her breath. "Eleanor and Quinton--they have gone together." His voice vibrates through the room. A gasp of horror escapes Mrs. Lane. She staggers back. "What shall you do?" she asks.