of matrimony; a temporary doubt which of two women was to enjoy the honour of styling herself Mrs. Athel.  The day’s long shame led to this completeness of self-contempt.  As if Beatrice would greatly care!  Why, in his very behaviour he had offered the cure for her heartburn; and her calmness showed how effective the remedy would be.  The very wife whom he held securely had only been won by keeping silence; tell her the story of the last few days, and behold him altogether wifeless.  He laughed scornfully.  To this had he come from those dreams which guided him when he was a youth.  A commonplace man, why should he not have commonplace experiences?

He had walked in this direction with the thought of passing beneath Emily’s window before he returned home, yet, now that he was not more than half an hour’s walk from her, he felt weary and looked aside for a street which should lead him to the region of vehicles.  As he did so, he noticed a woman’s form leaning over the riverside parapet at a short distance.  A thought drew him nearer to her.  Yes, it was Emily herself.

‘You were coming to see me?’ she asked.

Love in a woman’s voice—­what cynicism so perdurable that it will bear against that assailant?  In the dusk, he put her gloved hand against his lips, and the touch made him once more noble.

’I had meant to, beautiful, but it seemed too late, and I was just on the point of turning back.  You always appear to me when I most need you.’

‘You wanted to speak to me, Wilfrid?’

’When do I not?  My life seems so thin and poor; only your breath gives it colour.  Emily, I shall ask so much of you.  I have lost all faith in myself; you must restore it.’

They stood close to each other, hand in hand, looking down at the dark flow.

‘If I had not met you, Wilfrid,’ she said, or whispered, ’I think my end must have been there—­there, below us.  I have often come here at night.  It is always a lonely place, and at high tide the water is deep.’

His hand closed upon hers with rescuing force.

‘I am carrying a letter,’ Emily continued, ’that I was going to post before I went in.  I will give it you now, and I am glad of the opportunity; it seems safer.  I have written what I feel I could never say to you.  Read it and destroy it, and never speak of what it contains.’

She gave him the letter, and then he walked with her homewards.

On the morrow, shortly after breakfast, he was sitting in his study, when a knock came at the door.  He bade enter, and it was Beatrice.  She came towards him, gave her hand mechanically, and said—­

‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’

He placed a chair for her.  Her eyes had not closed since they last looked at him; he saw it, though the expression of her features was not weariness.

’There is one thing, Wilfrid, that I think I have a right to ask you.  Will you tell me why she left you, years ago?’