Her feelings towards Morris were variable as the wind. At times the memory of his brutal insults, his treachery and faithlessness, were uppermost in her thoughts; then she felt for him only the most intense and passionate hatred, bitterly grudging every hour of happiness to which she had contributed in the past; praying wildly that the future might hold for him agony of spirit equal to that into which he had so ruthlessly plunged her. Then, again, a flood of her old devotion would rise above all else. "Morris, Morris, come back to me! Oh, my darling, my darling, how can I live without you?" was her sobbing appeal; but there was none to answer. For the most part she sorrowed in silence. She was aware that whispered conversations were in progress outside her door, and more than once the handle was turned cautiously. Later in the afternoon, Bianca, who was genuinely attached to her beautiful young mistress, ventured to tap again and again, at the same time imploring, in a tremulous voice, to be allowed to do something--anything. But Evarne turned a deaf ear to all. Time passed, and the first violence of her emotion burned itself out. Then she became conscious that she felt sick and ill, and that her head ached to distraction. Letting down her thick black hair, she threw herself once again upon her tumbled bed, and made a first serious and protracted effort to remain absolutely quiet and calm. Long she lay there, staring at vacancy, sighing piteously at intervals, until as the evening twilight crept into the room, the lids drooped over the wild eyes and the exhausted girl sank into slumber. When she awoke, it was night. The room was shrouded in darkness, and perfect silence reigned. As recollection returned she despairingly pressed her hands to her head, but firmly forbade any further lapse from self-control. The determination she had arrived at during the weary time she had lain passive before falling asleep was now to be put into action. When the traitors who were beneath that roof awoke in the morning, they should find their victim gone. She shrank from again meeting either of the Belmonts; Morris it was better she should not see. One of the trains that left Paris in the grey of the morning should bear her away--far beyond the reach of these, her enemies. Her thoughts turned towards London. She was not exactly a feminine Dick Whittington; at the same time the great metropolis certainly seemed to offer the greatest hope for one who had her own way to make.