She had her moods when planning vague enterprises in New York or Boston satisfied her, and other moods when she determined to change her name, and join a theatrical troupe.  From these some slight accident might dash her to the bitterest depths of despondency.  She would have a sudden, sick memory of Stephen’s clear voice, of the touch of his hand, she would be back at the Browning dance again, or sitting between him and Billy at that memorable first supper—–­

“Oh, my God, what shall I do?” she would whisper, dizzy with pain, stopping short over her sewing, or standing still in the street, when the blinding rush of recollection came.  And many a night she lay wakeful beside Mary Lou, her hands locked tight over her fast-beating heart, her lips framing again the hopeless, desperate little prayer:  “Oh, God, what shall I do!”

No avenue of thought led to comfort, there was no comfort anywhere.  Susan grew sick of her own thoughts.  Chief among them was the conviction of failure, she had tried to be good and failed.  She had consented to be what was not good, and failed there, too.

Shame rose like a rising tide.  She could not stem it; she could not even recall the arguments that had influenced her so readily a few months ago, much less be consoled by them.  Over and over again the horrifying fact sprang from her lulled reveries:  she was bad—­she was, at heart at least, a bad woman—­she was that terrible, half-understood thing of which all good women stood in virtuous fear.

Susan rallied to the charge as well as she could.  She had not really sinned in actual fact, after all, and one person only knew that she had meant to do so.  She had been blinded and confused by her experience in a world where every commandment was lightly broken, where all sacred matters were regarded as jokes.

But the stain remained, rose fresh and dreadful through her covering excuses.  Consciousness of it influenced every moment of her day and kept her wakeful far into the night.  Susan’s rare laughter was cut short by it, her brave resolves were felled by it, her ambition sank defeated before the memory of her utter, pitiable weakness.  A hundred times a day she writhed with the same repulsion and shock that she might have felt had her offense been a well-concealed murder.

She had immediately written Stephen Bocqueraz a shy, reserved little letter, in the steamship company’s care at Yokohama.  But it would be two months before an answer to that might be expected, and meanwhile there was great financial distress at the boarding-house.  Susan could not witness it without at least an effort to help.

Finally she wrote Ella a gay, unconcerned note, veiling with nonsense her willingness to resume the old relationship.  The answer cut her to the quick.  Ella had dashed off only a few lines of crisp news; Mary Peacock was with them now, they were all crazy about her.  If Susan wanted a position why didn’t she apply to Madame Vera?  Ella had heard her say that she needed girls.  And she was sincerely Susan’s, Ella Cornwallis Saunders.