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of her late apathy, forgetful of her loss, of the crushing blow that had come to her life, of her loneliness, her darkness, her perplexity.

Loathing filled her heart.

This woman, who had had a secret understanding with her husband, no matter of what nature, should never enter her presence again. Youth had reasserted itself; her heart was not dead; it had been only stunned by the blow.

Taking a pen, she wrote rapidly these words,

"Do not start. I shall have left Groschenheim before this reaches you. We should miss en route. I will telegraph again from Brussels."

This was Mr. Hamilton's morning greeting when he awoke next day.

He kept the slip of paper to himself.
"We need not either of us go," was all

he vouchsafed to Mrs. Scarsdale at breakfast. "Mrs. Dalrymple is coming to England."

He left the hotel, and went to his rooms in St. James's Street. He did not invite Mrs. Scarsdale to return to Berrylands, but, when he had paid the hotel bill, he wished her good morning.

"Shall you want me any more?" she asked, spitefully.

"No, thank you. I am sorry to have troubled you unnecessarily;" and taking off his hat he departed.

CHAPTER XVII.

THREE INTERVIEWS.

BEING once roused, Lesbia did not sink into her former apathy again. It became very clear to her, after the receipt of that telegram, that she would not remain at Groschenheim. She told herself that it would be impossible for her to go out, to be spoken to by the Grand Duke, by the Grand Duchess, by Prince Philip, by the persons whom she had been used to see during her husband's lifetime. "Her husband!" But had he not himself declared in that hour of supreme anguish when he had flung her from him and trodden her under foot, that he was not her husband? That she was in nowise his wife? And if not his wife, what then? Could she listen to the condolences

which. it would be fit for her, as a widow, to hear, but very unfit for her, as a castaway, to accept? No: she must get away. Never would she return to Groschenheim; never willingly speak again to any of the sojourners within its borders. But whither should she flee from the spirit that was for ever tormenting her? Whither should she turn from the presence of those thoughts which had well-nigh driven her distracted? To whom could she appeal? She seemed unable to form any plan; everything swam vaguely before her eyes; only of one thing she was conscious. She would go away; go where she could be quiet, where the eyes of pity could not rest upon, nor the finger of scorn point at her.

Possessed with this idea, feeling pledged as it were to leave Groschenheim as speedily as possible, since she had telegraphed to Mr. Hamilton that ere her

message reached him she would be en route, she began, after a painful, helpless fashion, to pack her trunk, to take down her books, to arrange her personal belongings. The presence even of Dorette was unpleasant to her. The girl must feel some curiosity, would probably ask questions, would certainly refer to late events. When she wanted anything moving that was too heavy for her, she called Johann; but, the object attained, she immediately sent him away again, much to the poor faithful fellow's discomfiture.

Dorette stood under the doorway, knitting, and her big soldier stood by her; whilst her tongue wagged volubly of her young mistress's strange proceedings.

The evenings were beginning to close in; it was late in the autumn.

Suddenly a tall figure stood before Dorette and her soldier. The lady wore

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