* * * * *

One of these interviews occurred after his final evening adieux to the Cardross family and to Hamil.  Shiela drove him to the hotel in Gray’s motor, slowly, when they were out of sight, at Malcourt’s request.

“I wanted to give you another chance,” he said.  “I’m a little more selfish, this time—­because, if I had a decent opportunity I think I’d try to fall in love with somebody or other—­”

She flushed painfully, looking straight ahead over the steering-wheel along the blinding path of the acetylenes.

“I am very sorry,” she said, “because I had—­had almost concluded to tell them—­everything.”

“What!” he asked, aghast.

Her eyes were steadily fixed on the fan-shaped radiance ahead which played fantastically along the silvery avenue of palms and swept the white road with a glitter like moonlight streaming over snow.

“You mean you are ready for your freedom, Shiela?”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“That—­it may be best—­best—­to tell them ... and face what is left of life, together.”

“You and I?”

“Yes.”

He sat beside her, dumb, incredulous, nimble wits searching for reasons.  What was he to reckon with in this sudden, calm suggestion of a martyrdom with him?  A whim?  Some occult caprice?—­or a quarrel with Hamil?  Was she wearied of the deception?  Or distrustful of herself, in her new love for Hamil, lest she be tempted to free herself after all?  Was she already at that point where, desperate, benefits forgot, wavering between infatuation and loyalty, she turned, dismayed, to the only course which must crush temptation for ever?

“Is that it?” he asked.

“What?” Her lips moved, forming the word without sound.

“Is it because you are so sorely tempted to free yourself at their expense?”

“Partly.”

“You poor child!”

“No child now, Louis....  I have thought too deeply, too clearly.  There is no childhood left in me.  I know things....  You will help me, won’t you—­if I find I need you?”

“Need me, Shiela?”

“I may,” she said excitedly; “you can’t tell; and I don’t know.  It is all so confused.  I thought I knew myself but I seem to have just discovered a devil looking back at me out of my own reflected eyes from my own mirror!”

“What an exaggerated little thing you are!” he said, forcing a laugh.

“Am I?  It must be part of me then.  I tell you, since that day they told me what I am, I have wondered what else I might be.  I don’t know, but I’m watching.  There are changes—­omens, sinister enough to frighten me—­”

“Are you turning morbid?”

“I don’t know, Louis.  Am I?  How can I tell?  Whom am I to ask?  I could ask my own mother if I had one—­even if it hurt her.  Mothers are made for pain—­as we young girls are.  Miserable, wretched, deceitful, frightened as I am I could tell her—­tell her all....  The longing to have her, to tell her has become almost—­almost unendurable—­lately....  I have so much need of her....  You don’t know the desolation of it—­and the fear!  I beg your pardon for talking this way.  It’s over now.  You see I am quite calm.”