"I do indeed, my dear," I replied. And I replied with unshakable conviction. She was a woman who once having come under the domination of an idea would obey it blindly, ruthlessly, marching straight onwards, looking neither to right nor left. The very virtue that had made her overcruel to him in the past would have made her overkind to him in the future. Unwittingly she had used a phrase startlingly true. She would have worn herself to death in her determination to please. Incidentally she would have driven him mad with conscientious dutifulness. "He would have found no fault with me that I could help," she said. "But we needn't speak of it any more. I'm not the woman for him. Liosha is. It's all over. I'm glad. At any rate, I've made atonement--at least, I've tried--as far as things lay in my power." I took both her hands, greatly moved by her courage. "And what's going to happen to you, my dear?" "Now that all this is straight," she replied, with a faint smile, "I can turn round and remake my life. You and Barbara will help." "With all our hearts," said I. "It won't be so hard for you, ever again, I promise. I shall be more reasonable. And the first favour I'll ask you, dear Hilary, is to let me go this afternoon. It would be a bit of a strain on me to stay." "I know, my dear," I said. "The car is at your service." "Oh, no! I'll go by train." "You'll do as you're told, young woman, and go by car." At this rubbishy speech, the tears, for the first time, came into her eyes. She pulled down my shoulders--I am rather lank and tall--and kissed me. "You're a dear," she said, and went off in search of Barbara. I returned to my library, rang the bell, and gave orders for the chauffeur to stand at Mrs. Boldero's disposal. Then I sat down at a loose end, very much like a young professional man, doctor or estate-agent, waiting for the next client. And like the young professional man at a loose end, I made a pretence of looking through papers. Presently I became aware that I only had to open a window in order to summon a couple of clients at once. For there in the gathering November dusk and in the rain--it had ceased pouring, but it was drizzling, and therefore it was rain--I saw our pair of delectable savages strolling across the wet, sodden lawn, in loverlike proximity, for all the world as though it were a flowery mead in May. I might have summoned them, but it would have been an unprofessional thing to do. Instead, I drew my curtains and turned on the light, and continued to wait. I waited a long time. At last Barbara rushed in. "Doria's ready." "You've heard all about it?" She nodded. "I said there would be no marriage," I remarked blandly. "You said she wouldn't marry him. I said she would. And so she would, if he had let her. I know you're prepared to argue," she said, rather excitedly, "but it's no use. I was right all the time." I yielded. "You're always right, my dear," said I. * * * * *