When the Countess Lavinia saw her chair and page disappearing down the street, when she found herself standing alone, with perfect freedom before her, a sudden giddiness seized her, and she caught at one of the street posts, utterly at a loss.

This part of the town was new to her, she had traversed it only once or twice before, and then in a coach.

The resolve that had brought her so far faded before the novelty, the extraordinary novelty of her situation; she looked about her with wondering eyes, hardly able to believe that she, a prisoner all her life to someone or something, had dared so much, that she really stood there, unnoticed, unquestioned, free.

Let whatever would happen hereafter, whether she had to pay or no, whether she failed or succeeded in her desperate attempt to alter her life, the next few hours were hers absolutely, to do what she would with.

She looked up at the clock and saw that it was close on seven. There were very few people about; on the steps of the church a woman sat selling roses in a green rush basket; an empty hackney rolled over the cobbles; above the irregular roofs of the houses the sky showed a faint flushed gold stained with little torn clouds of deep pink.

The Countess, acting on no impulse save that of her sudden freedom, turned in the direction where she knew the river must lie.

Following closely built, winding streets, noticing with an eager and unaccountable interest little things—a thrush in a wicker cage, a woman knitting in a doorway, a child playing with a white rabbit, a girl leaning from a window watering a pot of wallflowers—asking a direction once in a small baker’s shop, and again of a chair-mender installed at the corner of a street, the Countess Lavinia found her way to the Thames.

The great river lay in a silver sullenness beneath the clear dome of the sky; its ceaseless ripples were outlined in threads of gold; gold shimmered in the sails of the brown boats floating by, and on the roofs of the houses on the Southwark side. The Countess found it beautiful beyond anything she had imagined; an air of gay peace lay over it all, an atmosphere of pure contentment.

Where the bank sloped to the water a couple of plane trees grew, shaking their dusty summer foliage against the fading blue; the Countess crossed, stood beneath them and looked along the reaches of the river.

She thought of people who had drowned themselves in these waters, and tried to imagine the sensation of sinking beneath the sunset ripples.

A party of young apprentices came by, unmoored a boat, and went off down the river to the sound of laughter and the splash of oars, but they looked at her, and the manner of it reminded her of her appearance and the likelihood of causing comment; she wore a thin muslin dress and a red silk mantle, her hair hung in powdered curls under her wide straw hat, and she carried a useless parasol. An unusual figure for this neighbourhood at this hour, and one that could not long go unquestioned.

Becoming conscious of the observation of the few passers-by, she moved along the bank in the direction of the Abbey of Westminster.

The sun sank and the gold died swiftly from land and water; a little wind rose and clouds began to obscure the sky. The Countess shivered in her light clothing, and the exaltation in her freedom died as swiftly as it had come; she was aware only that she was lonely, unprotected, that she had missed her way and must find it, must find Marius.

As her thoughts dwelt on him, the old sore, passions that always accompanied her unnameable feeling for my lord’s brother, sprang to life—hatred of her husband, of her father, bitter desire to be avenged, to pull them all down.

She moved on quickly. For all the chilling wind she shuddered with a sense of inward heat, and giddiness now and then clouded her vision. She remembered that she had been ill last night, that she had not slept at all, and a horrible fear of sudden death possessed her; she recalled tales of people dying without warning—in the street, at the table.

She hurried on. The clouds had silently and swiftly covered the sky. As she turned into the square by the Parliament House dusk had overspread the city, and a few drops of rain began to fall. Beneath the Abbey towers she paused, bewildered.

Somewhere near here Marius lived—but where? Before her marriage she had seldom travelled further than Bedford Row, and since she had kept completely to Lyndwood House and the resorts of fashion, and never before had she been in the streets alone. This part of the town was utterly strange to her; she felt weary, too, and frightened, a new sensation. What if Marius were abroad, or refused to see her—or scorned her utterly, as these men could?

Then her resolve and daring rose, running like a flame through her veins. She stopped a solitary hackney that passed and told the man to drive to Smith’s Square; alighting there she paid him quietly as if ’twere a customary action, and looked about her. The Square was quite empty and the rain falling heavily in the gusts of the wind.

The third house, they had said, from the south side, at the Sign of the Lamb. She found it without difficulty and paused under the little portico, to stare with shuddering eyes at the great clumsy church that occupied the centre of the Square.

The chill dusk, the steady rain, the silent dark houses that yet had an air of watchfulness as if behind their blank windows spying eyes observed her, affected her with a terror that nearly brought her to scream aloud.

She made no attempt either to ring the bell or to move away. The rain swept in under the portico, wetting her thin dress, the dark gathered about her, and her hand, resting on the iron railing of the steps, became a white blur before her eyes.

Then the door opened. She stepped back. It was Marius’ man.

“Is your master at home?” the words came instinctively, more natural than silence.

“Yes, madam.”

She wondered how much he could see of her, and spoke again, forestalling his curiosity.

“I am of Captain Lyndwood’s family, you need not come up with me.”

The man glanced round the deserted Square for her coach, chair, or servants.

“You are perhaps on your way to my lady’s house for some of your master’s things?” the Countess hazarded.

She could have laughed when he assented.

“Then go, there is no need to interrupt your errand,” she felt the desperation in her heart must be touching her voice. “Please let me pass, it is important that I see Captain Lyndwood at once.”

The servant stood aside and the Countess stepped across the threshold.

“Captain Lyndwood’s chambers are on the second floor, madam;” the man still hesitated, holding the door open.

An inspiration came to the Countess to use her name—her husband’s name; all she had learnt of the great dame flashed into her manner.

“I am Lady Lyndwood, and my lord is following me.”

The man bowed, and she closed the door impetuously on him.

Now, what to do?

She looked about her. It was a modest hall pleasantly panelled with light wood; she heard someone singing below stairs and wondered about these others in the house.

Shivering in her damp clothes she mounted the narrow stairway with the cautious step that was natural to her; on the second landing a noise beneath attracted her attention; she leaned over the banisters and saw a girl in a flowered gown hanging a lamp in the hall.

When she had gone again and all was still, the Countess turned and opened the door opposite.

It led into an unlit chamber; the Countess entered and softly shut herself in; the room was empty, quietly furnished. On the floor were a couple of portmantles, over a chair a cloak and a sword; books, papers, and a bunch of white roses lay on the little spinet in the corner. Through the two long windows showed the cold blue of the wet summer evening and the dark shadow of a creeper blowing loose from the bricks.

The Countess noticed all these things as she shivered on the threshold; she gave a little suppressed cough and moved forward, then stood still.

An inner door opened and Marius Lyndwood came out, holding a lighted candle.

He saw her instantly.

“Lavinia!” he cried.

This was extraordinary to her, he had never used her name before. She stared at him as he stood, arrested with the glow of the candle full on his horrified face.

“You did not think to see me,” she said foolishly, then she sank on to one of the stiff chairs. “I am very cold, and tired; I have walked from Saint Martin’s Church.”

Marius set the candle on the object nearest to his hand, the spinet.

“Is this with my lord’s knowledge?” he asked.

Their eyes met.

“No,” came her strained voice. “I have run away, it was no longer bearable.”

Marius was quite silent; his face, as she watched it, seemed to grow older, sterner, and anguis............