“I think I must. This sultry heat is too much for me, and I’m very tired of London and everything belonging to it. I should like to have gone to my old haven on the Italian Riviera, but it would be too hot.” “Why so far?” Lorraine glanced at Hal with a strange expression in her eyes, as she said: “It is a greater rest to get right away. I shall try some little place in Brittany. Switzerland is so overrun with tourists in the summer.” When she was alone, some of the quiet went out of Lorraine’s face and a restless look of pain crept in. She shaded her eyes and gazed long at the river. That old spirit of recklessness, which had caused her to hurl scorn and defiance at Mrs. Hermon’s emissary, and afterwards allow Alymer to visit her at the little fishing-village, against his wiser judgment, had passed away now, and given place to one of poignant questioning—a spirit of questioning concerning that mad action of hers, and its results. She could not find it in her heart to regret it, not for one moment; but nevertheless her mind was sore troubled concerning the future for Alymer and herself. And at the back of all the questioning there sounded ever an insistent call to renounce—something above and beyond all desire and all seeming, which told her she must not remain in his life, that, as far as she was concerned, he must be free for the great work of his future. And yet how hard it was to go! Ever and anon her longing whispered, “Why seek a crisis yet? Why not go on the same a little longer?” But since, before long, she would be compelled to go, and since the nausea of London was gaining upon her, she began to feel it would certainly be wiser to start at once, and find some homely, quiet spot where she could remain in privacy, with her identity unknown for some months. And always that quiet voice in the background insisted that she must cut herself off from Alymer Hermon. Soon after Hal had left her he came in, and, standing as usual upon the hearth, regarded her with grave eyes. He was nearly always grave now, as with some recollection that weighed heavily on his mind. Lorraine tried to rally him, but without much success; and a pitiless thought that had sometimes assailed her of late—that he regretted their friendship and everything connected with it, struck icily on her heart. He was too loyal to show it, and yet, that strong instinct of womanhood, which reads closed books as if they were spread open to the light, sounded its warning note. He would never blame her openly, but in his heart he was already beginning to find it a little difficult not to do so secretly. “You can’t go away alone, Lorry,” he said unhappily, “and I can’t possibly come with you.” “Of course you can’t,” cheerfully. “It isn’t to be thought of for a moment. I don’t know whether you can even come and see me. You certainly mustn’t run any risks just now. Flip tells me Hall is interested, and you may get your big chance shortly through him.”