I had it on my lips to say—­“I have decided to dismiss the model,” when that feeling of irritation against her for looking so wretched came uppermost and held the words back.

If she couldn’t trust me and would worry about things when I told her not to, she might worry and I would let her alone.

It really always hurt and alarmed me so much to see Viola look ill or delicate that it made me angry with her, instead of extra considerate and kind as I should have been.

She came upstairs to be with me while I dressed, and sat in the armchair at the foot of the bed.

I asked her if she had a headache, and she said, “No.”

“What did you do all this afternoon?” I asked.  “Did any one come in to tea?”

“No, nobody came.  I was lying on a sofa in the drawing-room most of the time, thinking.  I didn’t feel able to do anything.”

I did not ask her what she had been thinking about, but went on dressing in silence.

Before I left I kissed her, but it was rather a cold kiss, as I felt she ought to be happy and pink-cheeked as a result of my good intentions—­unreasonably enough, since I had not told her of them.

She accepted it, but seemed to hesitate as if she wished to say something to me.  I saw her grow paler and her lips quiver.  She did not speak, however, and so in rather a strained silence we parted and I went downstairs.

How I regretted that coldness afterwards!  How mad and blind one is sometimes where one loves most!

I did not enjoy the dinner at all because I could not deny to myself that I had been unkind to her, with that tacit unkindness that is so keenly felt and is so difficult to meet or combat.  I left the hotel where the dinner had been held quite early, and drove back to the house, longing and impatient to be with her again, hold her in my arms, and tell her all I had resolved and been thinking about, and kiss the bright colour back into her face again.

I let myself in with my latch-key and ran up the stairs into the drawing-room.

It was brightly lighted, but empty.  I was just going to seek her upstairs when a note set up before the clock on the mantelpiece caught my eye.

I crossed the room, took it up, tore it open, and ran my eyes hurriedly down it, line after line.

    “Dearest,

“Our relations have entered upon a new phase lately.  I suppose it cannot be helped, it is merely the turning on of the wheel of time.  We cannot stay the wheel, still less turn it back.  All we can do is to adjust ourselves to the new position.

“You have wished for your freedom.  It is yours.  I have never wanted to take it away, but I feel I cannot go on dedicating my life and every thought I have to you as I have done, if you wish to share with others all that has been mine and all that I value most in this or any world.  I have tried, but it is beyond me.