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That was a night of wild unrest for Natalie Lind. It was her father
himself who had represented to her all that banishment from his native
country meant to an Englishman; and in her heart of hearts she believed
that it was through her this doom had befallen George Brand. She knew he
would not complain. He professed to her that it was only in the
discharge of an ordinary duty he was leaving England: others had
suffered more for less reason; it was nothing; why should she blame
herself? But all the same, through this long, restless, agonizing night
she accused herself of having driven him from his country and his
friends, of having made an exile of him. And again and again she put
before herself the case she had submitted to Madame Potecki; and again
and again she asked herself what her own mother would have done, with
her lover going away to a strange land.
In the morning, long before it was light, and while as yet she had not
slept for a second, she rose, threw a dressing-gown round her, lit the
gas, and went to the little escritoire that stood by the window.


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