their boots.  I am heartily glad now to be out of their set and rid of them, instead of having to receive them civilly in my house for Marian’s sake.  The whole business was strangling me:  the strain of keeping my feeling to myself was more than you can imagine.  Do you know that there have been times when I have been so carried away with the idea that she must be as tired of the artificiality of our life as I was, that I have begun to speak my mind frankly to her; and when she recoiled, hurt and surprised and frightened that I was going to turn coarse at last, I have shut up and sat there apparently silent, but really saying under my breath:  ’Why dont you go?  Why dont you leave me, vanish, fly away to your own people?  You must be a dream:  I never married you.  You dont know me:  you cant be my wife:  your lungs were not made to breathe the air I live in.’  I have said a thousand things like that, and then wondered whether there was any truth in telepathy—­whether she could possibly be having my thoughts transferred to her mind and thinking it only her imagination.  I would ask myself whether I despised her or not, calling on myself for the truth as if I did not believe the excuses I made for her out of the fondness I could not get over.  I am fond of her still, sometimes.  I did not really—­practically, I mean—­despise her until I gave up thinking about her at all.  There was a certain kind of contempt in that indifference, beyond a doubt:  there is no use denying it.  Besides, it is proved to me now by the new respect I feel for her because she has had the courage and grit to try going away with Douglas.  But my love for her is over:  nothing short of her being born over again—­a thing that sometimes happens—­will ever bring her into contact with me after this.  To put it philosophically, she made the mistake of avoiding all realities, and yet marrying herself to the hardest of realities, a working man; so it was inevitable that she should go back at last to the region of shadows and mate with that ghostliest of all unrealities, the non-working man.  Perhaps, too, the union may be more fruitful than ours:  the cross between us was too violent.  Now you have the whole story from my point of view.  What do you—­”

“Hush!” said Elinor, interrupting him.  “What is that noise outside?”

The house bell began to ring violently; and they could hear a confused noise of voices and footsteps without.

“Can she have come back?” said Elinor, starting up.

“Impossible!” said Conolly, looking disturbed for the first time.  They stood a moment listening, with averted eyes.  A second peal from the bell was followed by roars of laughter, amid which a remonstrant voice was audible.  Then the house door was hammered with a stick.  Conolly ran downstairs at once and opened it.  On the step he found Marmaduke reeling in the arms of the Rev. George.

“How are you, ol’ fler?” said Marmaduke, plunging into the hall.  “The parson is tight.  I found him tumbling about High Street, and brought him along.”