Had he been so unfortunate as to offend her?  And in what way?  As that doubt occurred to Herbert his mind turned to Catherine. She never took offense at trifles; a word of kindness from him, no matter how unimportant it might be, always claimed affectionate acknowledgment in the days when he was living with his wife.  In another moment he had dismissed that remembrance, and could trust himself to return to Sydney.

“If you find that Sandyseal confirms your first impression,” he said, “let me know it in time, so that I may make arrangements for a longer stay.  I have only taken the rooms here for a fortnight.”

“Thank you, Herbert; I think a fortnight will be long enough.”

“Long enough for you?” he asked.

Her morbid sensitiveness mistook him again; she fancied there was an undernote of irony in his tone.

“Long enough for both of us,” she replied.

He drew a chair to her side.  “Do you take it for granted,” he said, smiling, “that I shall get tired of the place first?”

She shrank, poor creature, even from his smile.  There was, as she thought, something contemptuous in the good-humor of it.

“We have been to many places,” she reminded him, “and we have got tired of them together.”

“Is that my fault?”

“I didn’t say it was.”

He got up and approached the bell.  “I think the journey has a little over-tired you,” he resumed.  “Would you like to go to your room?”

“I will go to my room, if you wish it.”

He waited a little, and answered her as quietly as ever.  “What I really wish,” he said, “is that we had consulted a doctor while we were in London.  You seem to be very easily irritated of late.  I observe a change in you, which I willingly attribute to the state of your health—­”

She interrupted him.  “What change do you mean?”

“It’s quite possible I may be mistaken, Sydney.  But I have more than once, as I think, seen something in your manner which suggests that you distrust me.”

“I distrust the evil life we are leading,” she burst out, “and I see the end of it coming.  Oh, I don’t blame you!  You are kind and considerate, you do your best to hide it; but you have lived long enough with me to regret the woman whom you have lost.  You begin to feel the sacrifice you have made—­and no wonder.  Say the word, Herbert, and I release you.”

“I will never say the word!”

She hesitated—­first inclined, then afraid, to believe him.  “I have grace enough left in me,” she went on, “to feel the bitterest repentance for the wrong that I have done to Mrs. Linley.  When it ends, as it must end, in our parting, will you ask your wife—?”

Even his patience began to fail him; he refused—­firmly, not angrily—­to hear more.  “She is no longer my wife,” he said.

Sydney’s bitterness and Sydney’s penitence were mingled, as opposite emotions only can be mingled in a woman’s breast.  “Will you ask your wife to forgive you?” she persisted.