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er。 The masks at the joining of the handles were of grinning satyrs。 They were leering at her； she thought。 They alone were aware of the good reason there was for satyrs to grin。 A woman had just sent away from her； forever； the bravest man in all the worldthose were Phyllis' wordsa king of menthe one man who loved her and whom she loved。 She had pretended to him that she was subject to the influences of religion； of honor； of duty！ What hypocrisy！ They knew it； those leering creaturesthey knew that she cared nothing for religion； that she regarded honor and duty as words of no meaning when such words as love and devotion were in the air。
She looked at the satyr masks； and had anyone been present in the room； that one would have seen that her lovely face became gradually distorted until the expression it wore was precisely the same as that upon the masksan expression that had its audible equivalent in the laugh which broke from her。
She lay back on her broad cushions。 One of the strands of her splendid hair had become loose； and after coiling over half a yard of the brocaded silk of a cushion； twisted its way down to the floor。 She lay back； pointing one finger at the face on the vase and laughing that satyr…laugh。
〃We knowwe knowwe know！〃 she cried； and her voice was like that of a drunken woman。 〃We know allyou and Iwe know the hypocrisythe pretense of religionof honordutya husband！ Ah； a husband！ that is the funniest of allthat husband！ We know how little we care for them all。〃
She continued laughing until her cushion slipped from under her head。 She half rose to straighten it； and at that instant she caught a glimpse of her face in the center silvered panel of the Venetian mirror。 The cry of horror that broke from her at that instant seemed part of her laugh。 It would not have occurred to anyone who might have heard it that it was otherwise than consistent with the incongruity； so to speak； of the existing elements of the scene。 The hideous leer of the thing with horns； looking down at the exquisite picture of the /fete champetre/the distorted features of the woman's face in the center of the ruby and emerald and sapphire of the Venetian mirror the cry of horror mixed with the laugh of the woman who mocked at religion and honor and purityall were consistently incongruous。
In another instant she was lying on the sofa with her face down to the cushion； trying to forget all that she had seen in the mirror。 She wept her tears on the brocaded silk for half an hour； and then she slipped from where she was lying till her knees were on the floor。 With a hand clutching each side of the cushion she got rid of her passion in prayer。
〃Oh； God！ God！ keep him away from me！ keep him away from me！〃 was her prayer； and it was possibly the best that she could have uttered。 〃Keep him away from me！ keep him away from me！ Don't let my soul be lost！ Keep him away from me！〃
When she struggled to her feet； at last； she stood in front of the mirror once again。
She now saw a face purified of all passion by tears and prayer； where she had seen the soulless face of a Pagan's orgy。
She went upstairs to her bed and went asleep； thanking God that she had had the strength to send him away； that she had had strength sufficient to stand where she had stood in the room； silent； while he had put his arms on her bare shoulders and kissed her on the mouth； saying 〃Good…by。〃
She felt that she had every reason to thank God for that strength； for she knew that it had been given to her at that moment； it had not sprung from within her own heart； her heart had been crying out to him； 〃Stay； stay； stay！〃 her heart took no account of honor or purity or a husband。
Yes； she felt that the strength which had come to her at that moment had been the especial gift of God； and she was thankful to God for it。
That consciousness of gratitude to God was her last sensation before falling asleep； and； when morning came； her first sensation was that of having a letter to write。 Before she had breakfasted she had written her letter and sent it to be posted。
This was the letter：
〃MY ONE LOVE： I was a fooloh； such a fool！ How could I have done it？ How could I have sent you away in such coldness last night？ Believe me； it was not I who did it。 How could I have done it？ You know that my love for you is limitless。 You know that it is my life。 I tell you that my love for you laughs at such limits as are laid down by religion and honor。 Why should I protest？ My love is love； and there can be no love where there are any limits。
〃Come to me on Thursday。 I shall be at home after dinner； at nine； and see if I am not now in my right mind。 Come to me； come to me； Bertie； my love。〃
CHAPTER XVII。
WHAT AM I THAT I SHOULD DO THIS THING？
〃At last！〃
He sat with the letter before him after he had breakfasted； and perhaps for a time； say a minute or so； he caught a glimpse of the nature of the woman who had written those lines to him。 If he had not had some appreciation of her nature he would have spent an hour or two perhaps a day or twotrying to reconcile her attitude of the previous night with the tone of her letter。 He did not； however； waste his time over such an endeavor。 He knew that she loved him； and that she did not love her husband。 He knew that she had allowed him to kiss her； and it had been a puzzle to him for some months why she had not come to his arms foreverhe meant her to be his own property forever。 He had been amazed to hear her allude； as she had done on the previous night； to such abstractions as honor； religion； her husband。 He could not see what they had to do with the matter in hand。 He could not see why such considerations should be potent to exercise a restraining influence on the intentions of a man and a woman who love each other。
Well； now it would appear that she had cast to the winds all such considerations as she had enumerated； and was prepared to live under the rule of love alone； and it was at his suggestion she was doing so。
For a moment or two he saw her as she was： a woman in the midst of a seething ocean； throwing up her hands and finding an absolute relief in going downdowndown into very hell。 For a moment or two his heart was full of pity for her。 Who could be a spectator of a woman's struggles for life in the midst of that turbulent sea of passion which was overwhelming her； and refrain from feeling pity？ That letter which lay before him represented the agonizing cry of a drowning creature； one whom the long struggle has made delirious； one who looks forward to going down with the delight born of delirium。
He recollected a picture which he had once seenthe picture of a drowning woman。 He saw it now before him with hideous vividness； and the face of the woman was the face of Ella Linton。 The agony of that last fight with an element that was overpowering； overwhelming in its ruthless strength； was shown upon every feature； and his soul was filled with pity。
He sprang to his feet and crushed the letter into his pocket。 He felt none of the exultation of the huntsmanonly sadness at the fate of the hunted thing that lay at his feet。 Once before the same feeling had come over him。 It was when； after the long struggle up the river； through the forests； swamps； jungle grass that cut the body of a man as though it were sharp wire； he fired his shot and the meteor…bird fell at his feet。 After the first few panting breaths that came to him he had stood leaning on his gun； looking down at that beautiful thing which he had deprived of life。
〃What am I that I should have done this thing？〃 he had asked himself on that evening； while the blacks had yelled around him like devils。
〃What am I that I should do this thing？〃 was his cry now； as the voice of many demons sounded in his ears。
What was he that he should rejoice at receiving that letter from the woman over whose head the waters were closing？
He ordered his horse and； mounting it； rode to where he could put it to the gallop。 So men try to leave behind them the sneering demons of conscience and self…reproach。 Some of them succeed in doing so； but find the pair waiting for them on their own doorstep。 Herbert Courtland galloped his horse intermittently for an hour or two； and then rode leisurely back to his rooms。 He felt that he had got the better of those two enemies of his who had been irritating him。 He heard their voices no longer。 He had lost them （he fancied）； because there had come to him another voice that said：
〃I love herI love her。〃
And whensoever that voice comes to a man as it came to Herbert Courtland it drowns all other voices。 He would love her to the end of his life。 Their life together would be the real life for which men and women have come into the world。 He would go to her； and so far from allowing her to sink beneath the waters down to hell； his arms would be around her to bear her up untilwell； is it not generally conceded that love is heaven and heaven is love？
He seated himself at a desk and wrote to her an impassioned line。 He would go to her； he said。 If death should come to him the next day he would still thank God for having given him an hour of life。
That was what he saidall。 It expressed p