He dropped the letter, picked it up and read it again and then folded it in his accustomed tidy manner and replaced it in the envelope.  He sat down and propped the letter against the inkstand and stared at the address in her careless hand:  “The Right Honourable Sir Cloud Malpas, Baronet.”  She had written the address in full like that as a last stroke of sarcasm.  And she had not even put “Private.”

He was dizzy, nearly stunned; his head rang.

Then he rose and went to the window.  The high hill on which stood Malpas Manor—­the famous Rat Edge—­fell away gradually to the south, and in the distance below him, miles off, the black smoke of the Five Towns loomed above the yellow fires of blast-furnaces.  He was the demi-god of the district, a greater landowner than even the Earl of Chell, a model landlord, a model employer of four thousand men, a model proprietor of seven pits and two iron foundries, a philanthropist, a religionist, the ornamental mayor of Knype, chairman of a Board of Guardians, governor of hospitals, president of Football Association—­in short, Sir Cloud, son of Sir Cloud and grandson of Sir Cloud.

He stared dreamily at his dominion.  Scandal, then, was to touch him with her smirching finger, him the spotless!  Gertrude had fled.  He had ruined Gertrude’s life!  Had he?  With his heavy and severe conscientiousness he asked himself whether he was to blame in her regard.  Yes, he thought he was to blame.  It stood to reason that he was to blame.  Women, especially such as Gertrude, proud, passionate, reserved, don’t do these things for nothing.

With a sigh he passed into his dressing-room and dropped on to a sofa.

She would be inflexible—­he knew her.  His mind dwelt on the beautiful first days of their marriage, the tenderness and the dream!  And now—!

He heard footsteps in the study; the door was opened!  It was Gertrude!  He could see her in the dusk.  She had returned!  Why?  She tripped to the desk, leaned forward and snatched at the letter.  Evidently she did not know that he was in the house and had read it.

The tension was too painful.  A sigh broke from him, as it were of physical torture.

“Who’s there?” she cried, in a startled voice.  “Is that you, Cloud?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“But you’re home very early!” Her voice shook.

“I’m not well, Gertrude,” he replied.  “I’m tired.  I came in here to lie down.  Can’t you do something for my head?  I must have a holiday.”

He heard her crunch up the letter, and then she hastened to him in the dressing-room.

“My poor Cloud!” she said, bending over him in the mature elegance of her thirty years.  He noticed her travelling costume.  “Some eau de Cologne?”

He nodded weakly.

“We’ll go away for a holiday,” he said, later, as she bathed his forehead.

The touch of her hands on his temples reminded him of forgotten caresses.  And he did really feel as though, within a quarter of an hour, he had been through a long and dreadful illness and was now convalescent.