“Hello!” said Richie, taking an opposite chair.  His expression grew solicitous at the sight of Jim’s haggard face.  “Headache, old boy?” he asked sympathetically.

Jim shook his head.  The big room was almost dark now, and they had it quite to themselves.

“Thinking what a rotten mess I’ve made of everything, Rich,” Jim said desperately.

Richie took out a handkerchief and wiped the palms of his hands, but did not answer.

“She’ll never forgive me, I know that,” Jim presently said.  And as Richie was again silent, he added:  “Do you think she ever will?”

“I don’t know,” poor Richie said hesitatingly.  “She’s awfully kind—­Julia.”

“She’s an angel!” Jim agreed fervently.  He sat with his head in his hands for a few moments.  Then he cleared his throat and said huskily:  “Look here, you know, Rich, I’m not such an utter damn fool as I seem in this whole business.  I can’t explain, and, looking back now, it all seems different; but I had a grievance, or thought I had—–­God knows it wasn’t awfully pleasant for me to go away.  But I had a reason.”

“It wasn’t anything you didn’t know about before you were married, I suppose?” asked Richie, with what Jim thought unearthly prescience.

“No,” Jim answered, with a startled look.

“Nor anything you’d particularly care to have the world know or suspect?” pursued Richie.  “Not anything Julia could change?”

“No,” Jim said again.  Richard leaned back in his chair.

“Some scrap with her people, or some old friends she wanted to hang on to,” he mused.  Jim did not speak.  “Well,” said Richie, “there would be plenty of people glad to be near Julia on any terms.”

“Oh, I know that,” Jim said.  And after a moment he burst out again:  “Richie, am I all wrong?  Is it all on my side?”

“Lord, don’t ask me,” Richie said hastily.  “The older I grow the less I think I know about anything.”

There was a silence.  Richard clamped the arms of his chair with big bony fingers and frowned thoughtfully at the floor.

“I wish to God I did know what to advise you, Jim,” he said presently.  “I’d die for her—­she knows that.  But she’s rare, Julia; it’s like trying to deal with some delicate frail little lady out of Cranford, like trying to guess what Emily Bronte might like, or Eugenie de Guerin!  Julia’s got life sized up, she likes it—­I don’t know whether this conveys anything to you or not!—­but she likes it as much as if it was part of a play.  You don’t matter to her any more; I don’t; she sees things too big.  She’s quite extraordinary; the most extraordinary person I ever knew, I think.  There’s a completeness, a finish about her.  She’s not waiting for any self-defence from you, Jim.  It won’t do you any good to tell her why you did this or that.  You thought this was justified, you thought that was—­certainly, she isn’t disputing it.  You did what you did; now she’s going to abide by it.  You never dreamed thus and so—­very well, the worse for you!  You want to hark back to something that’s long dead and gone; all right, only abide by your decision.  And afterward, when you realize that she’s a thousand times finer than the women you compare her to, and try to make her like, then don’t come crying to her!”