“Oh, I may grow very, very wicked and selfish one of these days, and not care for simple things any longer; and then you might be hurt, and you would know how unworthy I was that you should care for me, and you would shrink from me.” “Oh, Clytie, darling!” cried Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck, “how can you say such things?” “It is silly, I know,” said Clytie; “but I sometimes feel that I might do something very wicked without much compunction before I die.” “But you are going to lead a splendid, beautiful life!” said Winnie. “You will live in a great house, and have at your command the most brilliant society in London, all the clever, artistic people--just what you like. And you won't have to paint for orders, so you need never have to cramp your genius, dear. Oh, Clytie, you will simply be overflowing with happiness all your life long.” Clytie sighed. The independence of her half-Bohemian life was very dear to her. This was the last night on which, if it so pleased her, she could go forth into the streets, uncontrolled, whither she would. Henceforward her actions would have to be referred to an authority. To-morrow she would even change her name; be transformed from the Clytie Davenant whom she knew into Mrs. Hammerdyke, a vague, mysterious entity, with whose nature she was unfamiliar. No matter how glorious the future, there is always some regret in leaving forever a past phase of life: At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. But this was a pleasant place Clytie was about to quit, and she looked back upon its associations with a sigh. In the morning a commissionnaire sent by Thornton came and fetched away her trunks, for the newly married pair were to start for the Continent immediately after the ceremony. When these were despatched Clytie stood for a moment before her glass, adjusted the clasp of her cape and the set of her broad gray beaver hat, and turning to Winifred, said quietly: “Let us go, dear.”