“Ah, you are right!” said Charteris, and his eyes grew tender.  “She must have what she most desires; and all must be sacrificed to that.”  He turned and spoke as simply as a child.  “Of course, you know, I shall be giving up a great deal for love of her, but—­I am willing.”

Musgrave looked at him for a moment.  “H’m doubtless,” he assented.  “Why, then, we won’t consider the others.  We will not consider your wife, who—­who worships you.  We won’t consider the boy.  I, for my part, think it is a mother’s duty to leave an unsullied name to her child, but, probably, my ideas are bourgeois.  We won’t consider Patricia’s relatives, who, perhaps, will find it rather unpleasant.  In short, we must consider no one save Patricia.”

“Of course, one cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

“No; the question is whether it is absolutely necessary to make the omelet.  I say no.”

“And I,” quoth Charteris smiling gently, “say yes.”

“For Patricia,” Musgrave went on, as in meditation, but speaking very clearly, “it means giving up—­everything.  It means giving up her friends and the life to which she is accustomed; it means being ashamed to face those who were formerly her friends.  We, the world, our world of Lichfield, I mean—­are lax enough as to the divorce question, heaven knows, but we can’t pardon immorality when coupled with poverty.  And you would be poor, you know.  Your books are tremendously clever, Jack, but—­as I happen to know—­the proceeds from them would not support two people in luxury; and Patricia has nothing.  That is a sordid detail, of course, but it is worth considering.  Patricia would never be happy in a three-pair back.”

Mr. Charteris was frankly surprised.  “Patricia has—­nothing?”

“Bless your soul, of course not!  Her father left the greater part of his money to our boy, you know.  Most of it is still held in trust for our boy, who is named after him.  Not a penny of it belongs to Patricia, and even I cannot touch anything but a certain amount of interest.”

Mr. Charteris looked at the colonel with eyes that were sad and hurt and wistful.  “I am perfectly aware of your reason for telling me this,” he said, candidly.  “I know I have always been thought a mercenary man since my marriage.  At that time I fancied myself too much in love with Anne to permit any sordid considerations of fortune to stand in the way of our union.  Poor Anne! she little knows what sacrifices I have made for her!  She, too, would be dreadfully unhappy if I permitted her to realize that our marriage was a mistake.”

“God help her—­yes!” groaned Musgrave.

“And as concerns Patricia, you are entirely right.  It would be hideously unfair to condemn her to a life of comparative poverty.  My books sell better than you think, Rudolph, but still an author cannot hope to attain affluence so long as he is handicapped by any reverence for the English language.  Yes, I was about to do Patricia a great wrong.  I rejoice that you have pointed out my selfishness.  For I have been abominably selfish.  I confess it.”