Catherine regarded the tense, quivering little figure with chill dislike.

“You married my brother,” she replied imperturbably.

“And you have separated us!  But for you, we should be happy together—­he and baby and I!  But you have spoilt it all.  I suppose”—­a hint of the Latin Quarter element in her asserting itself—­“I suppose you think no one good enough to marry into your precious family!”

Catherine paused on her way to the cupboard, a pile of fine linen pillowslips in her hands.

“Yes,” she said quietly.  “It is I who have separated you—­spoilt your happiness, if you like.  And I am glad of it.  I can’t expect anyone like you to understand”—­there was the familiar flavour of disparagement in her tones—­“but I am thankful that my brother has seen the wickedness of his marriage with you, that he has repented of it, and that he is making the only atonement possible!”

She turned and composedly laid the pile of pillowslips in their appointed place on the shelf.  A faint fragrance of dried lavender drifted out from the dark depths of the cupboard.  Diane always afterwards associated the smell of lavender with her memories of Catherine Vallincourt, and the sweet, clean scent of it was spoiled for her henceforward.

“I hate you!” she exclaimed in a low voice of helpless rage.  “I hate you—­and I wish to God Hugh had never had a sister!”

“Well”—­composedly—­“he will not have one much longer.”

Diane stared.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that as far as our life together is concerned, it is very nearly over.”

“Do you mean”—­Diane bent towards her breathlessly—­“do you mean that you are going away—­going away from Coverdale?”

“Yes.  I am entering a sisterhood—­that of the Sisters of Penitence, a community Hugh is endowing with money that is urgently needed.”

“Endowing?”

“As part of the penance he has set himself to perform.”  Catherine’s steely glance met and held the younger woman’s.  “Thanks to you, the remainder of his life will be passed in expiation.”

Diane shook her head carelessly.  Such side-issues were of relatively small importance compared with the one outstanding, amazing fact:  Catherine was going away!  Going away from Coverdale—­for ever!

“Yes”—­Catherine read her thoughts shrewdly—­“yes, you will be rid of me.  I shall not be here much longer.”

Diane struck her hands together.  For once, not even the fear of Catherine’s gibing tongue could hold her silent.

“I’m glad—­glad—­glad you’re going away!” she exclaimed passionately.  “When you are gone I will win back my husband.”

“Do you think so?” was all she said.

But to Diane’s keyed-up consciousness it was as though the four short words contained a threat—­the germ of future disaster.

In due time Catherine quitted Coverdale for the austere seclusion of the sisterhood, and a very few weeks sufficed to convince Diane that her forebodings had been only too well founded.