‘Mr. Ispenlove is here,’ she whispered.

None of us spoke for a few seconds.  Mary Ispenlove stared at me, but whether in terror or astonishment, I could not guess.  This was one of the most dramatic moments of my life.

‘Tell Mr. Ispenlove that I can see nobody,’ I said, glancing at the wall.

She turned to go.

‘And, Emmeline,’ I stopped her.  ‘Do not tell him anything else.’

Surely the fact that Frank had called to see me before nine o’clock in the morning, surely my uneasy demeanour, must at length arouse suspicion even in the simple, trusting mind of his wife!

‘How does he know that I am here?’ Mary asked, lowering her voice, when Emmeline had shut the door; ‘I said nothing to the servants.’

I was saved.  Her own swift explanation of his coming was, of course, the most natural in the world.  I seized on it.

‘Never mind how,’ I answered.  ’Perhaps he was watching outside your house, and followed you.  The important thing is that he has come.  It proves,’ I went on, inventing rapidly, ’that he has changed his mind and recognises his mistake.  Had you not better go back home as quickly as you can?  It would have been rather awkward for you to see him here, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, her eyes softening and gleaming with joy.  ’I will go.  Oh, Carlotta! how can I thank you?  You are my best friend.’

‘I have done nothing,’ I protested.  But I had.

‘You are a dear!’ she exclaimed, coming impulsively to the bed.

I sat up.  She kissed me fervently.  I rang the bell.

‘Has Mr. Ispenlove gone?’ I asked Emmeline.

‘Yes,’ said Emmeline.

In another minute his wife, too, had departed, timorously optimistic, already denying in her heart that it could never be the same between them again.  She assuredly would not find Frank at home.  But that was nothing.  I had escaped!  I had escaped!

‘Will you mind getting dressed at once?’ I said to Emmeline.  ’I should like you to go out with a letter and a manuscript as soon as possible.’

I got a notebook and began to write to Frank.  I told him all that had happened, in full detail, writing hurriedly, in gusts, and abandoning that regard for literary form which the professional author is apt to preserve even in his least formal correspondence.

‘After this,’ I said, ’we must give up what we decided last night.  I have no good reason to offer you.  The situation itself has not been changed by what I have learnt from your wife.  I have not even discovered that she loves you, though in spite of what she says, which I have faithfully told you, I fancy she does—­at any rate, I think she is beginning to.  My ideas about the rights of love are not changed.  My feelings towards you are not changed.  Nothing is changed.  But she and I have been through that interview, and so, after all, everything is changed; we must give