Oh, she was his wife—­his wife—­his wife!  She belonged there, in that empty seat beside him, with her shoulder against that gray overcoat!  What was she doing in this desolate street of little shops, faint and heartsick and alone!  Oh, for the security of that familiar car again!  How often she had sat beside him, arrested by the traffic, content to placidly watch the shifting crowd, to wait for the shrill little whistle that gave them the right of way!  If she were there now, where might they be going?  Perhaps to a concert, perhaps to look at a picture in some gallery, but first of all certainly to lunch.  His first question would be:  “Had your lunch?” and his answer only a satisfied nod.  But he would direct Martin to the first place that suggested itself to him as being suitable for Rachael’s meal.  And he would order it, no trouble was too much for her; nothing too good for his wife.

She was not beside him.  She was still drifting along this hideous street, battling with faintness and headache, and never, perhaps, to see her husband again.  One of her sons was in the city, another miles away, To her horror she felt herself beginning to cry.  She quickened her pace, and reckless of the waiter’s concern, entered the station restaurant and ordered herself a lunch.  But when it came she could not eat it, and she was presently in the train, without a book or magazine, still fasting except for a hurried half cup of tea, and every instant less and less able to resist the corning flood of her tears.

All the long trip home she wept, quietly and steadily, one arm on the window sill, a hand pressed against her face.  There were few other passengers in the train, which was too hot.  The winter twilight shut down early, and at last the storm broke; not violently, but with a stern and steady persistence.  The windows ran rain, and were blurred with steam, the darkening landscape swept by under a deluge.  When the train stopped at a station, a rush of wet air, mingled with the odors of mackintoshes and the wet leather of motor cars, came in.  Rachael would look out to see meetings, lanterns and raincoats, umbrellas dripping over eager, rosy faces.

She would be glad to get home, she said to herself, to her snuggly little comforting Derry.  They would not attempt to make the move to-morrow—­that was absurd.  It had been far too much of a trip to-day, and Alice had advised her against it.  But it had not sounded so formidable.  To start at seven, be in town at ten, after the brisk run, and take the afternoon train home—­this was no such strain, as they had planned it.  But it had proved to be a frightful strain.  Leaving Jim, and then catching that heart-rending glimpse of the changed Warren—­Warren looking like a hurt child who must bear a punishment without understanding it.

“Oh, what are we thinking about, to act in this crazy manner!” Rachael asked herself desperately.  “He loves me, and I—­I’ve always loved him.  Other people may misjudge him, but I know!  He’s horrified and shamed and sorry.  He’s suffering as much as I am.  What fools—­what utter fools we are!”