"You are—free," she gasped.
She swayed a little and would have fallen if Cyril had not caught her.
"Quick—a doctor," he cried.
"It is too late," she murmured. "Too late! Forgive me, Cyril. I—loved—you—so——"
CHAPTER XXII
CAMPBELL RESIGNS
Under a yew tree, overlooking a wide lawn, bordered on the farther side by a bank of flowers, three people are sitting clustered around a tea-table.
One of them is a little old lady, the dearest old lady imaginable. By her side, in a low basket chair, a girl is half sitting, half reclining. Her small figure, clad in a simple black frock, gives the impression of extreme youth, which impression is heightened by the fact that her curly, yellow hair, reaching barely to the nape of her neck, is caught together by a black ribbon like a schoolgirl's. But when one looks more closely into her pale face, one realises somehow that she is a woman and a woman who has suffered—who still suffers.
On the ground facing the younger woman a red-headed young man in white flannels is squatting tailor-fashion. He is holding out an empty cup to be refilled.