“I am so tired,” she moaned. “You must go to bed,” he replied in a gentler voice than hitherto. “We had better part now. To-morrow, if you are well enough to travel, we will leave for England.” “Let me go alone,” she murmured, “and you go on to Switzerland. Why should your holiday be spoiled?” “It is my life that is spoiled,” he said ungenerously. “The holiday matters very little. It is best to return to England as soon as possible. Between now and to-morrow morning I shall have time to reflect upon the situation.” He struck a match and lit the candles and drew down the blind. The light revealed her to him so wan and exhausted that he was moved with compunction. “Don’t think me hard, my child,” he said, bending over her. “It is the bitterest day of our lives. We must pray to God for strength to bear it. I shall leave you now. I shall see that you have all you want. Try to sleep. Good-night.” “Good-night,” she said miserably. And so, without touch of hand, they parted. The hours of the evening wore on, and night came. At last she cried herself to sleep. It had been a day of tears. They left Ostend quietly the following morning by the Dover boat. During the whole journey the Canon treated Yvonne with the deferential courtesy he could always assume to women, seeing to her comforts, anticipating her wants, even exchanging now and then casual remarks on passing objects of interest. But of the subject next his heart he said not a word. The crossing was smooth. The sea air revived Yvonne’s strength. His silence half comforted, half frightened her. Had he relented? She glanced often at his impassive face, in cruel anxiety to pierce to the thoughts that lay behind. Yet a little hope came to her; for fear of losing it she dared not speak. To her simple mind it seemed impossible that merely conscientious scruples could make him cast her off. If he loved her, his love would triumph. If he persisted in his resolve, he cared for her no longer. In this case her future was very simple. She would go back to London and sing. She seemed to have cried her feeling away during the night--such as he had left unbruised and untorn. For the quivering flesh is only sensitive up to a certain point of maceration. He had trodden upon her pitilessly; but she felt no resentment. In fact, she would have been quite happy if he had put his arms round her and said, “Let us forget, Yvonne.” By the end of the journey she had cajoled herself into the idea that he would do so. A suite of rooms received them in the quiet West End hotel where the Canon always stayed. They dined alone, the discreet butler waiting on them, for the Canon was an honoured guest. When the cloth was removed, the Canon said in his even voice:-- “Are you sufficiently recovered, Yvonne, to discuss this painful subject?” “I am quite ready, Everard.”