Lady Holme sat down on the sofa at the foot of the bed. She was trembling violently. She sat looking on the ground and trying to control her limbs. A sort of dreadful humbleness surged through her, as if she were a guilty creature about to cringe before a judge. She trembled till the sofa on which she was sitting shook. She caught hold of the cushions and made a strong effort to sit still. The handle of the door turned.

"Don't come in!" she cried out sharply.

But the door opened and her husband appeared on the threshold. As he did so she turned swiftly so that only part of the left side of her face was towards him.

"Vi!" he said. "Poor old girl, I--"

He was coming forward when she called out again "Stay there, Fritz!"

He stopped.

"Why?" he asked.

"I--I--wait a minute. Shut the door."

He shut the door. She was still looking away from him.

"Do you understand?" she said, still in a sharp voice.

"Understand what?"

"That I'm altered, that the accident's altered me--very much?"

"I know. The doctor said something. But you look all right."

"From there."

The trembling seized her again.

"Well, but--it can't be so bad--"

"It is. Don't move! Fritz--"

"Well?"

"You--do you care for me?"

"Of course I do, old girl. Why, you know--"

Suddenly she turned round, stood up and faced him desperately.

"Do you care for me, Fritz?" she said.

There was a dead silence. It seemed to last for a long while. At length it was broken by a woman's voice crying:

"Fritz,--Fritz--it isn't my fault! It isn't my fault!"

"Good God!" Lord Holme said slowly.

"It isn't my fault, Fritz! It isn't my fault!"

"Good God! but--the doctor didn't--Oh--wait a minute--"

A door opened and shut. He was gone. Lady Holme fell down on the sofa.

She was alone, but she kept on sobbing:

"It isn't my fault, Fritz! It isn't my fault, Fritz!"

And while she sobbed the words she knew that her life with Fritz Holme had come to an end. The chapter was closed.

From that day she had only one desire--to hide herself. The season was over. London was empty. She could travel. She resolved to disappear.

Fritz had stayed on in the house, but she would not see him again, and he did not press her to. She knew why. He dreaded to look at her. She would see no one. At first there had been streams of callers, but now almost everybody had left town. Only Sir Donald came to the door each day and inquired after her health. One afternoon a note was brought to her. It was from Fritz, saying that he had been "feeling a bit chippy,"

and the doctor advised him to run over to Homburg. But he wished to know what she meant to do. Would she go down to her father?--her mother, Lady St. Loo, was dead, and her father was an old man--or what? Would she come to Homburg too?

When she read those words she laughed out loud. Then she sent for the _New York Herald_ and looked for the Homburg notes. She found Miss Pimpernel Schley's name among the list of the newest arrivals. That evening she wrote to her husband:

"Do not bother about me. Go to Homburg. I need rest and I want to be alone. Perhaps I may go to some quiet place in Switzerland with my maid. I'll let you know if I leave town. Good-bye.

"VIOLA HOLME."

At first she had put only Viola. Then she added the second word. Viola alone suggested an intimacy which no longer existed between her and the man she had married.

The next day Lord Holme crossed the Channel. She was left with the servants.

Till then she had not been out of the house, but two days afterwards, swathed in a thick veil, she went for a drive in the Park, and on returning from it found Sir Donald on the door-step. He looked frailer than ever and very old. Lady Holme would have preferred to avoid him.

Since that interview with her husband the idea of meeting anyone she knew terrified her. But he came at once to help her out of the carriage.

Her face was invisible, but he knew her, and he greeted her in a rather shaky voice. She could see that he was deeply moved, and thanked him for his many inquiries.

"But why are you still in London?" she said.

"You are still in London," he replied.

She was about to say good-bye on the door-step; but he kept her hand in his and said:

"Let me come in and speak to you for a moment."

"Very well," she said.

When they were in the drawing-room she still kept the veil over her face, and remained standing.

"Sir Donald," she said, "you cared for me, I know; you were fond of me."

"Were?" he answered.

"Yes--were. I am no longer the woman you--other people--cared for."

"If there is any change--" he began.