Hylda stood waiting, erect, her eyes gazing blankly before her and rimmed
by dark circles, her face haggard and despairing.
Before the Duchess could reach her, she said in a hoarse whisper: "I have
left him--I have left him. I have come to you."
With a cry of pity the Duchess would have taken the stricken girl in her
arms, but Hylda held out a shaking hand with the letter in it which had
brought this new woe and this crisis foreseen by Lord Windlehurst.
"There--there it is. He goes from me to her--to that!" She thrust the
letter into the Duchess's fingers. "You knew--you knew! I saw the look
that passed between you and Windlehurst at the opera. I understand all
now. He left the House of Commons with her--and you knew, oh, you knew!
All the world knows--every one knew but me." She threw up her hands.
"But I've left him--I've left him, for ever."
Now the Duchess had her in her arms, and almost forcibly drew her to a
sofa. "Darling, my darling," she said, "you must not give way. It is
not so bad as you think. You must let me help to make you understand."
Hylda laughed hysterically. "Not so bad as I think! Read--read it,"
she said, taking the letter from the Duchess's fingers and holding it
before her face. "I found it on the staircase. I could not help but
read it." She sat and clasped and unclasped her hands in utter misery.
"Oh, the shame of it, the bitter shame of it! Have I not been a good
wife to him? Have I not had reason to break my heart? But I waited,
and I wanted to be good and to do right.
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