Ailsa turned to Letty Lynden.

“It is so sweet of you to want to come.  Will you send your trunk to my house?  I will have luncheon ready, and another gray uniform for you.  You’ll be a communicant soon, so there is no possible harm in wearing it.”

“I would like to wear Sainte Ursula’s garb,” said the girl wistfully.  “Do you really think I may, Mrs. Paige?”

“You shall indeed!  Will you be ready by eleven?”

“I have very little to take with me—­only a small trunk.  I will be at your house at eleven.”

Ailsa, nervous and excited, nodded; the suddenness of departure was beginning to stimulate her.  She walked rapidly home, summoned the servants, interviewed the house-keeper, sat down and drew necessary checks to cover a month’s absence; sent hurried notes to Celia, to Camilla, to Colonel Arran, to Captain Hallam; dispatched a servant to find a hack, another to pack for her, another to serve her something to eat.

The household below stairs was inclined to tears; old Jonas sniffled and shuffled about, shrunken hands hanging helpless, mild eyes following his young mistress as she moved decisively from room to room, gathering up or indicating to servants what she required for her journey.

Shawls, handbags, umbrellas, cloaks, and trunk were packed and strapped and carried off below.  Letty arrived with her trunk, was taken to Ailsa’s room where luncheon for two was ready on a big silver tray.

Later Jonas arrived, still sniffling, to announce the hack; and the two gray-garbed women hurried away amid the hysterical snivel of servants and the friendly mewing of Missy, who trotted after them to the front door, tail erect, followed by her latest progeny on diminutive and wavering legs.

All the way to the ferry Ailsa sat silent in her corner of the hack, worried, reflecting, trying to recollect what it was that she had left undone.

Something important she certainly had forgotten; she knew it, searching her mind, while Letty furtively watched her in silence, gloved hands clasped in her lap.

And suddenly Ailsa knew, and a flood of colour dyed her face; for the vague sense of leaving something undone was the instinct to let Berkley know she was going—­the blind, unreasoning need for some communication with him.

Had it been possible that all this time she had not utterly uprooted this man from her insulted heart!  Had hope, all this time, unconsciously lived latent in her; was it possible that somehow, somewhere, there remained a chance for him yet—­a chance for her—­a cure—­the only cure for all he had done to her—­himself!

She reddened painfully again as memory, insolent, imperious, flashed in her brain, illuminating the unquiet past, sparing her nothing—­no, not one breathless heart beat, not one atom of the shame and the sweetness of it, not one dishonourable thrill she had endured for love of him, not one soundless cry at night where she lay tortured, dumb, hands clenched but arms wide flung as her heart beat out his name, calling, calling to the man who had ended himself for ever.