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“And so, though he will never know it, my hand will deal him the blow. There’s a certain satisfaction in that, at any rate.”

Vera’s voice was still unshaken, but it was hard and strained. She took the envelope, and placing the letter within it, sealed the flap.

“Are you refusing him because—because of what you know concerning his friendship, as you call it, for me?”

“No, he asked me to marry him before—that night. The afterneon you all got back from the Wairiri Polo Tournament.”

“Had he been making love to you from the first day of your arrival?”

“What good can all this discussion do?”

“You needn’t answer my question.”

“If it helps, I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, it will help me. Not now, at the moment, perhaps, but later. Do you mind if I sit down again?”

She sank into a chair, and for a moment Ann, looking at her face, so deathly white in the gloom, thought she was going to faint.

“No, I’m all right,” said Vera, as Ann made a movement towards her. “Don’t come any nearer. I think I’m hating you and Gerald more than I’ve ever hated any one in my life.”

“You haven’t any reason to hate me.”

“Reason—reason,”’ repeated Vera, a little wildly. “Do you think this kind of . . . of torment has anything to do with reason?” She took a deep breath again, and closing her eyes laid her head back against the cushions of the chair. “I wish I could cry,” she said at last, “I haven’t cried since. . .” she broke off. “Not even when I was ill in Sydney. They thought