On Christmas Day he opened his eyes, and said to the grave, thin woman who sat with her hand in his: 

“Margaret!”

He slipped off again too quickly to know that she had broken into tears and fallen on her knees beside him.

After a while he sat up, and was read to, and finally wept because the nurses told him that some day he would want to get up and walk about again.  His wife came every day, and he clung to her like a child.  Sometimes, watching her, a troubled thought would darken his eyes; but on a day when they first spoke of the terrible past, she smiled at him the motherly smile that he was beginning so to love, and told him that all business affairs could wait.  And he believed her.

One glorious spring afternoon, when the park looked deliriously fresh and green from the hospital windows, John received permission to extend his little daily walk beyond the narrow garden.  With an invalid’s impatience, he bemoaned the fact that his wife would not be there that day to accompany him on his first trip into the world.

His nurse laughed at him.

“Don’t you think you’re well enough to go and make a little call on Mrs. Kirby?” she suggested brightly.  “She’s only two blocks away, you know.  She’s right here on Madison Avenue.  Keep in the sunlight and walk slowly, and be sure to come back before it’s cold, or I’ll send the police after you.”

Thus warned, John started off, delighted at the independence that he was gaining day after day.  He walked the two short blocks with the care that only convalescents know; a little confused by the gay, jarring street noises, the wide light and air about him.

He found the address, but somehow the big, gloomy double house didn’t look like Margaret.  There was a Mrs. Kirby there, the maid assured him, however, and John sat down in a hopelessly ugly drawing-room to wait for her.  Instead, there came in a cheerful little woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Kippam.  She was of the chattering, confidential type so often found in her position.

“Now, you wanted Mrs. Kirby, didn’t you?” she said regretfully.  “She’s out.  I’m the housekeeper here, and I thought if it was just a question of rooms, maybe I’d do as well?”

“There’s some mistake,” said John; and he was still weak enough to feel himself choke at the disappointment.  “I want Mrs. John Kirby—­a very beautiful Mrs. Kirby, who is quite prominent in—­”

“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Mrs. Kippam, lowering her voice and growing confidential.  “That’s the same one.  Her husband failed, and all but killed himself, you know—­you’ve read about it in the papers?  She sold everything she had, you know, to help out the firm, and then she came here—­”

“Bought out an interest in this?” said John, very quietly, in his winning voice.