There was the life of comradeship, the secure little compartment where Gerald was at home, so at home that he could tell her she was perfect and touch her scarf with an approving hand, and from this familiar shelter she had looked for so long, with the calmest eye, upon his flirtations, and in it had heard, unmoved, his encomiums upon herself.

The other life, the real life, was all outdoors in comparison; it was all her real self, passionate, untamed, desolate; it was like a bleak, wild moorland, and the social, the comrade self only a strongly built little lodge erected, through stress of wind and weather, in the midst of it.

Since girlhood it had been a second nature to her to keep comradeship shut in and reality shut out.

And to-night reality seemed to shake and batter at the doors.
She had come to Merriston House to rest, to drink _eau rougie_ and to rest.

She wanted to lapse into apathy and to recover, as far as might be, from her recent unpleasant experiments and experiences.