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 are kind to each other. It's a habit; and the kindness keeps them together. But with you and Dick age will make no difference. I see it all. When you are an old, old woman, you would only have to hold out your hand to him, and he would follow you. He is yours for ever and ever. If you were dead and he never saw you again, it would make no difference. As long as he could remember you—he would still be yours.'

Marthe Ludérac closed her eyes. She leaned against the wall and her head drooped. 'I cannot talk,' she muttered. 'What you say is a romance—It is not true. But I cannot talk any longer. I am too tired—'

'No, we won't talk now,' Jill murmured, sustaining and enfolding her. 'Listen, my darling Marthe. You can't go back to the Manoir. You are to come with me, to Buissac. I'll help you. I'll carry the kid. You shall be quietly with me at the Ecu d'Or. You shall not see Dick until you feel you care to. I'll see him. I'll explain everything to him. I will take care of you.'

Helpless within her arms, Marthe's head hung against her breast. She seemed almost fainting; but Jill heard the word she muttered: 'Impossible. Impossible.'

'It's not impossible. It's the only way. You shan't go back to that horrible old woman. She'll kill you. I'm not going to argue with you. I'm not going to torment you. You are only coming with me, your friend, to be taken care of. Do you see? Marthe—my darling—don't set yourself against what must be.'