That dark, brooding look, that tender pressure that hinted at deep, splendid passion. How her whole body revolted at the thought that he had held her close even if only for an instant. How her cheek still burned with the memory of his hot breath.

The glitter of his eyes in the moonlight, how it had charmed her like the eyes of a serpent. And to think that nothing in her calm, poised self had been able to resist! She had been no better than the lowest girl upon the street whom she had always despised and spoken of with contempt. Well, she knew herself now for a sinner! Capable of yielding to any sin that reached her in the right subtle way.

Oh, she had always been so proud that she was able to take care of herself! She had boasted of it! And here she had been able to do nothing. It had just been Seagrave who had rescued her.

He had said he would pray for her. That morning standing by her father’s gate, he had told her he would pray for her. Perhaps he had been praying now, kneeling by his bedside somewhere in the stillness and darkness breathing a prayer for her!

The thought filled her with a great awe and started the scalding tears again. She felt like a little, humble, frightened child who hadn’t known her danger or need. All her self-sufficiency was gone. She despised herself.

The Constance of yesterday would have said, “Oh, such a fuss about a little kiss. What did it matter whether he kissed me or not? Of course I’ve always hated those things, but what’s a kiss more or less? No real harm done.”

But the Constance of this evening lay and shuddered because she had seen into her own heart and seen weakness and vileness and sin there. Playing with a principle of right and wrong. That was what it was. Oh, of course the world today was doing it all the time and laughing openly about it. But that did not make it any better now. She had seen into her own heart.

Maggie came to the door with the lovely white coat and a message from Doris that she would come if she was needed, but Constance sent back word that all she needed was rest, and would she please make her excuses? Maggie went away again, and quiet and darkness settled down around her. Constance arose and undressed in the dark, crept around her room giving little gasping sobs, now and then a long shudder of horror at the memory of the evening, an utter despising of herself. It was as if for the first time she had gazed into her own heart, which she had always supposed to be white and pure, and found it a nest of filth and creeping things.

She got into her bed and sobbed again into her pillow. She thought of Seagrave praying for her. Had it then been his prayers that had haunted her, held her back? She had thought it was her own nerves, seeing his face following her everywhere that way, reproaching her. But now suddenly she wondered if prayer did really have a power, an effect? Was it perhaps like the radio? Just as sounds were stored up in the air, so perhaps prayers were hovering around on their way to and from God? It filled her with great awe. It made her feel strangely as if God were in her room watching her thoughts.

But at least whatever had done it, she was free now from that feeling that Seagrave was following her. She was still burdened by the thought of her own failure, her own worthlessness; still ashamed of the way she had gotten her pearls and oppressed by the thought of confessing to Seagrave, but at least he was not haunting her anymore. She could look off into the darkness of her room and not see his spectral glance searching her. She had snapped back to normal, but she had left her self-respect and her self-esteem behind somewhere, and could she ever get them back?

At last, worn with alternate rage and shame and despair, she fell asleep, and when Doris came in later she tiptoed around the room and did not disturb her, for which Constance, partly roused, was vaguely grateful. She knew there was a reckoning coming, but she did not want to think about it now.

But the next morning it had to come.

Doris was coolly suspicious.

“But Constance, were you really sick?” she asked pointedly. “You seemed perfectly well when we started.”

“I had a headache,” said Constance evasively, glad to reflect that this was perfectly true.

“But Connie, you never stay away from a good time just for a headache.”

“A good time?” said Constance with a touch of her old familiar sarcasm. “I didn’t exactly feel that I was having a good time. You know I only went to please you.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t please me, going off like that.