“There was a slave,” she murmured, “who grew to love her gaoler, and when they came to set her free and take her back to her own people—­she prayed only to be left in her cell!  Freedom for her meant a broken heart!”

“But that was fiction,” he answered.  “For you, freedom will mean other things.  There is work for you to do, honorable work.  You must fan the flame of your husband’s ambition, you must see that he does justice to his great opportunities.  You have your own battle to fight with society, but you have the winning cards for, before you go, you and your husband will be received as guests—­well, by the one person whose decision is absolute.”

She looked at him in amazement.

“My word of honor,” he said quietly, “was enough for Lord Marendon.  You will find things go smoothly with you.”

“You are wonderful,” she gasped, “but—­you—­you spoke of going away.”

“I am going to travel,” he said quietly, “rather a long journey.  I have lived three lives, I am going to try a fourth!”

“Alone?” she asked.

“Quite alone,” he answered.

“Tell me where you are going?” she begged.

“I cannot do that,” he answered.  “It is my secret.”

She rose to her feet.  She was very pale.  She stood in front of him, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders.

“Wingrave,” she said, “I will obey.  I will live the life you have shown me, and I will live it successfully.  But I will know this.  Who is it that has succeeded where I have failed?”

“I do not understand you,” he answered.

“You do!” she declared, “and I will know.  For years you have been a man with a shell upon your heart.  Every good impulse, every kind thought seemed withered up.  You were absolutely cold, absolutely passionless!  I have worn myself out trying to call you back to your own, to set the blood flowing once more in your veins, to break for one moment the barriers which you had set up against Nature herself.  Some day, I felt that it must come—­and it has!  Who has done it, Wingrave?  It is not—­Emily?”

“Emily!” he exclaimed.  “I have not seen her for months.  She has no interest for me—­she never had.”

“Then tell me who it is!”

“Nature unaided,” he answered carelessly.  “Human intervention was not necessary.  It was the swing of the pendulum, Ruth, the eternal law which mocks our craving for content.  I had no sooner succeeded in my new capacity—­than the old man crept out.”

“But Nature has her weapons always,” she protested.  “Wingrave, was it the child?”

He touched the electric bell.  Taking her hands, he bent down and kissed them.

“Dear lady,” he said, “goodbye—­good fortune!  Conquer new worlds, and remember—­white is your color, and Paquin your one modiste.  Morrison, Lady Barrington’s carriage.”

“Love shall make all things new”