So she reasoned—so she excused her half-meditated treason—so she persuaded herself it would eventually be better for both if they parted. Yet all the while she knew she loved Gerald Leigh as she could love no other man. In this mental conflict the day passed and night found the letter unanswered. Then James Herbert came to her.
“Eugenia, have you replied to that letter?”
She shook her head.
“Give it to me,” he said.
She did so. It was a relief to get rid of it. He tore it into fragments.
“There,” he said. “I knew I could trust your good sense. There is an end of the affair. It is a secret between you and me, and I shall never again allude to it.”
For good or ill the die was cast. She had freed herself. But she had left the room with swimming eyes, and went to Mrs. Cathcart.
“Aunt,” she cried, “will you take me abroad—for a long time?”
It was hard for Mrs. Cathcart to be called upon to give up the rest of the London season. But then Mr. Herbert’s recent death prevented her going out much, and it was paramount that Eugenia’s future should be satisfactorily disposed of. So the excellent woman sacrificed herself at once.