“You won’t give me away to Gerald?”

“It may be my duty to do so.”

“No, no.” Vivien’s voice rose to a hysterical shriek. “He’ll divorce me. He won’t listen to a word. He’ll find out from that hotel, and Cyril will be dragged into it. And then his wife will divorce him. Everything will go—his career, his health—he’ll be penniless again. He’d never forgive me—never.”

“If you’ll excuse my saying so,” said Clare, “I don’t think much of this Cyril of yours.”

Vivien paid no attention.

“I tell you he’ll hate me—hate me. I can’t bear it. Don’t tell Gerald. I’ll do anything you like, but don’t tell Gerald.”

“I must have time to decide,” said Clare gravely. “I can’t promise anything offhand. In the meantime, you and Cyril mustn’t meet again.”

“No, no, we won’t. I swear it.”

“When I know what’s the right thing to do,” said Clare, “I’ll let you know.”

She got up. Vivien went out of the house in a furtive, slinking way, glancing back over her shoulder.

Clare wrinkled her nose in disgust. A beastly affair. Would Vivien keep her promise not to see Cyril? Probably not. She was weak—rotten all through.

That afternoon Clare went for a long walk. There was a path which led along the downs. On the left the green hills sloped gently down to the sea far below, while the path wound steadily upward. This walk was known locally as the Edge. Though safe enough if you kept to the path, it was dangerous to wander from it. Those insidious gentle slopes were dangerous. Clare had lost a dog there once. The animal had gone racing over the smooth grass, gaining momentum, had been unable to stop and had gone over the edge of the cliff to be dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks below.

The afternoon was clear and beautiful. From far below there came the ripple of the sea, a soothing murmur. Clare sat down on the short green turf and stared out over the blue water. She must face this thing clearly. What did she mean to do?

She thought of Vivien with a kind of disgust. How the girl had crumpled up, how abjectly she had surrendered! Clare felt a rising contempt. She had no pluck—no grit.

Nevertheless, much as she disliked Vivien, Clare decided that she would continue to spare her for the present. When she got home she wrote a note to her, saying that although she could make no definite promise for the future, she had decided to keep silence for the present.