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The disappearance of Gunnar, on the whole, aroused comparatively little astonishment in Campaspe; she was not, however, altogether free from a certain sensation of relief. There had been, she was fully aware, underground rumblings in their latest conversation which foretold in hollow tones the advent of emotional earthquakings. To tread lightheartedly over such fissures, portents of the anger of nature, had not been, hitherto, too difficult for a lady who protected herself with an adroitly secure philosophy, a philosophy which, supported by a few simple rules in respect to conduct, had never yet failed her even when the way split, figuratively speaking, under her feet. In this instance, however, she foresaw that the fissures would open between her and another, whose guiding star of idealism might not lead him safely to stable ground. He might conceivably, she argued, with a part of herself that seldom became conscious, appeal to her for aid in this extra-emergency, and push or pull her with him into the aching jaws of the chasm. He had had, she assured herself, a like premonition of impending disaster, and had rescued himself by the obvious device of running away from the danger, a