Her serenity had been won inch by inch; a great nature defying woman’s weakness that clung in bleeding desperation to the shattered illusions, finally routing it, and planting its own standard on the abandoned citadel. The battle had been fought during the interval of utter solitude. Yet not won without cost. She emerged calm, but weary and wounded and aching of heart, with loss of ideals and purpose in life. The committee of her beloved Institution, to which she had given so much earnest enthusiasm, had written an ashamed and pained suggestion of her resignation. She answered almost within the minute of reading, paying bravely the penalty of her tarnished name. But the rapid dashes of the pen were like sword thrusts through her flesh. With Gerard standing by her side on the starry plane of sacrifice, she would have accepted such penalties happily, for the dear friend’s sake. But alone, with Gerard against her, she needed all her proud strength to bear the pain unfalteringly. She had conquered, however, and could face the present and the future undaunted. Love was dead and buried. It had been her life. She would find a truer meaning to the strange new life upon which she was entering. But first the old apparellings must be cast away, and she must go forth free. She longed for the legal dissolution of the tie that still bound her to Gerard. With a man’s burning sense of wrong inflicted on the beloved woman, Hugh could not appreciate the intense earnestness of her desire. To divorce her was a deadly insult which made the barbaric man’s fingers tingle to be at the throat of the insulter. Barbaric vanity, too, compelled his thoughts to the pitiable figure he would cut, if he stood by silent, and allowed this outrage to be committed. He shifted his attitude impatiently and tugged at his moustache. The woman read him, and smiled. “Whatever your secret is, Hugh, you must keep it to yourself,” she said gently. “A man doesn’t face death for a trifle. That woman’s honour is still in your keeping.” Hugh felt the phrase like a barbed arrow. He snapped his fingers. “That for her honour! It was not in question. My own, if you like. I seduced no man’s wife nor dishonoured his children. I wrote you the truth from the prison--I can’t tell you more without entering upon the story.” “If you did, I should hold you false to your word,” said Irene. “And that you have never been. Let me know one true man, at any rate. I despise Fatima curiosities with all my soul. Tell me truly. You made a solemn promise of silence?” “Certainly.” “Then you must not break it. I couldn’t accept my rehabilitation with Gerard at that price, even if I desired it.” “I accepted a far greater sacrifice from you, Irene,” he said in a low voice. The tone brought the starting tears into her eyes. Impulsively she rose from her seat, and threw herself on her knees by his side, her hands clasping the arm of his chair.