Bitterness and regret were her portion--in a far greater degree than after that other crisis of her life, when its realities had come to her, and she knew she must bear them alone.

She had been too young then to understand half the possibilities of mental pain, and also there was no finality about anything--all might develop into sunshine again.

Now she had the most cruel torture of all, the knowledge that she herself by her wilfulness and pride had pulled down the blinds and brought herself into darkness, and that there was not anything to be done.
Nothing could have been more unhappy than was the state of these two young people in their separate homes.

In the old days when she used to try and banish the too lenient thoughts of Michael, she had always the picture of his selfishness and violent passion to call up to her aid--but that was blotted out now, and in its place there was the memory that it was he, not she, who had behaved nobly and decided to sacrifice all happiness to be true to his friend.

Sometimes when she first got back to Heronac she, too, allowed herself to dream of their good-bye, and the cruel sweetness of that brief moment of bliss, and she would go through strange thrills and quivers and stretch out her arms in the firelight and whisper his name aloud--"Michael--my dear love!" She could not even bear the watching, affectionate eyes of Madame Imogen and sent her to Paris on a month's holiday.