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No one cared if old hearts broke. Monica lay, on her awaking next morning, and almost smiled as the girlish self-pity of the thought returned to her. Until last night she had, perhaps, still been a girl and she lay now knowing that age brought acquiescence. He was not to die with his head in her hand, like Jeremy:—but he was not a lost dog; not stoned. He was lonely, yet loved and cherished; and as long as he lived the thought of her would keep alive the hope that had brushed them with its wing, as the thought of him would keep it alive in her. He was dear to her; very dear; but the sacrament of which they had partaken meant more, perhaps, than any personal relation could have done, and united them more really.

When, a little later, a note was brought to her she lay for a moment looking in a sort of bewilderment at her name written in Hester’s small, scholarly hand. Last night seemed far away; but how much farther the afternoon and her own suicidal self. She had almost forgotten the world of youth; almost forgotten Clive. Yet, as she opened Hester’s letter she knew that he was not less dear for having been