“I would rather go alone,” said Ronnie.  “I want to think things over.”

She rose and stood beside him.

“Ronnie dear, we seem to have lost all count of days.  But, as a matter of fact, to-morrow is Christmas Day.  Would you like to go home this afternoon?  We can order a car for two o’clock, and be at the Grange for tea.  Ronnie, wouldn’t it be rather lovely?  Think of the little cosy tea-table, and your own especial chair, and the soft lamp-light—­”

She paused abruptly.  The mental picture had recalled to both the evening on which they last stood together in that golden lamplight.

Ronnie hesitated, looking at the floor.  Then he raised his eyes to Helen’s.  “I don’t think I could bear it,” he said, turned from her quickly, and went upstairs.

In his room he scribbled a note.

“My wife—­I am awfully sorry, but I simply had to bolt.  Don’t be alarmed.  I have gone home to the Grange.  I believe, when I am by myself in the house where we spent the three years I thought so perfect and so happy, I shall find out what is the matter; I shall get to the very root of the Upas tree.

“I know I somehow hurt you horribly on the night I reached home, by asking you to come to the studio to hear me play my ’cello; but, before God, I haven’t the faintest idea why!

“You would not have said what you did, had you known I was ill; but neither would you have said it, unless it had been true.  If it was true then, it is true now.  If it is true now, we can’t spend Christmas Day together.

“I want you to go to the Dalmains by motor, as soon as you find this, and have a jolly, restful time with them.  You look worn out.

“RONNIE.”

“P.S.—­I am obliged to leave this in my room.  I hope you will find it there.  I don’t even know where your room is, Helen, in this beastly hotel.”

Ronnie considered his postscript; then crossed out “beastly” and substituted “large.”  But “beastly” still showed, pathetically, beneath the line.  And, by-and-by, the heart of Ronnie’s wife, from which all clouds had suddenly rolled away, understood it, and wept over it, and kissed it; and thought “beastly” a dear word!  It was so quaintly like Ronnie to substitute “large” for “beastly.”

All clouds had rolled away, before Helen read the note; for this is what had happened.

* * * * *

Ronnie had excused himself when lunch was half over.

Helen let him go, trying to act on Dr. Dick’s advice not to worry him by seeming to watch or follow him.

So she sat on alone, finishing luncheon, and thus did not see Ronnie walk out of the front door, carrying his bag.

Soon afterwards she passed into the hall, and sat dipping into the papers and thinking over her talk with Dick.

Presently a page stepped up to her with a letter on a salver.

Her heart stood still as she saw the stamp, the post-mark, and the writing.  It was from Aubrey Treherne, forwarded from Hollymead.