“Well, Natalie, what have you been about to-day?”

“First of all,” said she, regarding him with those fearless eyes of hers, “I went to South Kensington Museum with Madame Potecki.  Mr. Brand was there.”

His manner changed instantly.

“By appointment?” he said, sharply.

“No,” she answered.  “I thought he would call here, and I told Anneli where we had gone.”

Lind betrayed no expression of annoyance.  He only said, coldly,

“Last night I told you it was my wish that he and you should have no further communication with each other.”

“Yes; but is it reasonable, is it fair, is it possible, papa?” she said, forgetting for a moment her forced composure.  “Do you think I can forget why he is going away?”

“Apparently you do not know why he is going away,” her father said.  “He is going to America because his duty commands that he should; because he has work to do there of more importance than sentimental entanglements in this country.  He understands himself the necessity of his going.”

The girl’s cheeks burnt red, and she sat silent.  How could she accuse her own father of prevarication?  But the crisis was a momentous one.

“You forget, papa,” she said at length, in a low voice, “that when you returned from abroad and got Mr. Brand’s letter, you came to me.  You said that if there was any further question of a—­a marriage—­between Mr. Brand and myself, you would have to send him to America.  I was to be the cause of his banishment.”

“I spoke hastily—­in anger,” her father said, with some impatience.  “Quite apart from any such question, Mr. Brand knows that it is of great importance some one like himself should go to Philadelphia; and at the moment I don’t see any one who could do as well.  Have you anything further to say?”

“No, papa—­except good night.”  She kissed him on the forehead and went away to her own room.

That was a night of wild unrest for Natalie Lind.  It was her father himself who had represented to her all that banishment from his native country meant to an Englishman; and in her heart of hearts she believed that it was through her this doom had befallen George Brand.  She knew he would not complain.  He professed to her that it was only in the discharge of an ordinary duty he was leaving England:  others had suffered more for less reason; it was nothing; why should she blame herself?  But all the same, through this long, restless, agonizing night she accused herself of having driven him from his country and his friends, of having made an exile of him.  And again and again she put before herself the case she had submitted to Madame Potecki; and again and again she asked herself what her own mother would have done, with her lover going away to a strange land.

In the morning, long before it was light, and while as yet she had not slept for a second, she rose, threw a dressing-gown round her, lit the gas, and went to the little escritoire that stood by the window.  Her hand was trembling when she sat down to write, but it was not with the cold.  There was a proud look on her face.  This was what she wrote: