If only she could think that this made a difference.  She was so weary of the struggle.  The arguments which formerly sustained her had, with ceaseless iteration, lost their force; her battle-worn mind longed to throw down its arms in unconditional surrender.  Her up-bringing had been so different; this thing was not regarded by the world in the same light as it appeared to her; was she over-strained, opinionated, censorious?  Nesbit had called her so—­was he right?  Who was she, to set up her feeble judgment against the world’s verdict—­to condemn and criticise society’s decision?  Divorce must be—­even Scripture allowed that; a limb must be sacrificed sometimes that a life might be saved.  True, the process had always appeared to her, in her ignorance, an operation of cruel anguish, from which the patient came halt, or lame, or blind for life; but what if she should be wrong?  What if the present crab-like propensity for the renewal of the missing part was the natural and sensible condition.  This wicked woman—­this wife who had recklessly thrown aside life’s choicest gift—­was happy; she had replaced her lopped-off limb with a new one, and it was well with her.  Norma had said long ago that, “any woman who trifled with her happiness because of a scruple was a fool.”  Was Norma right?  Was her hesitation senseless, doltish folly?

The boundaries of the moonlight shifted; a long irregular cape, like a shining finger, stretched out across the floor and touched the hem of her dress.  From behind the screen in the fireplace came a little sound, as though a mouse were rustling fragments of torn paper.

If she could only recognize that this marriage had made a difference.  It was so wearisome, this strife with a heart that would not admit defeat, a love that fought on and would not die.  What was required of her?—­nothing; nothing save to sit with folded hands and let happiness flood her life like sunshine—­only to lay away the letter in her desk and wait silently for her lover to come to her.  Her lover—­the man whose influence had changed the monotonous calm of existence into the pulsing passion of living—­the man who loved her; whom she loved.  No words were needed—­only silence; he was so thoughtful for her, so anxious to spare her; only silence, and in a little while his arms would infold her; his beautiful eyes, heavy with tenderness, gaze deep into hers; his sweet, passionate kisses burn upon her lips.

The radiant finger stole softly up her dress, across her lap, and made a little pool of brightness in the heart of which the letter lay; outside in the dove-cote a pigeon cooed sleepily to his mate.