As for the very pretty young woman who had been wearing the hat with blue ribbons, it may be as well to remark that when the milk in the heart of a woman has become slightly curdled, it is to be expected that, under certain exciting influences, the whole will turn sour.  When to this curdling process is added the loss of her child and her fortune, calamities made all the more insupportable by reason of an interview lasting an hour in which her two hot hands were held in those of a sympathetic man of thirty, her cheeks within an inch of his lips, the quickest—­in fact, the only way—­yes, really the only way, to prevent any further calamity is to put your best gown in your best dressing-case, catch up your jewels, and exchange your husband’s roof for that of your father’s.  And this is precisely what my lady did do, and there in her father’s house she stayed, despite the entreaties of her own and her father’s friends.

“And why not?” she had argued, with flashing eyes:  “I am without a shilling of my own, owing to the Quixotic ideas of my husband, who, without thinking of me, has beggared himself to pay his father’s debts.  And that, too, just when I need to be comforted most.  He does not care how I suffer; and now that my father has offered me a home, I will lead my own life, surrounded by the few friends who have loved me for myself alone.”

That the eminent financier—­it might be better perhaps to say the late eminent financier—­was one of those same unselfish beings who had “loved her for herself alone,” and that he had, at once and without the delay of an hour, flown to her side followed as a matter of course, as did the gossip, men and women in and about the clubs and drawing-rooms nodding meaningly or hinting behind their hands.

“Rather rough on O’Day,” the men had agreed.  “That comes of marrying a woman young enough to be your daughter.”  “She ought to have known better,” was the verdict of the women.  “So many other ways of getting what you want without making a scandal,” this from a duchess from behind her fan to a divorcee.  But few words of sympathy for the deserted husband escaped any of them and, except from his old servants, Felix allowed himself to receive none.

He had made no move to win her back.  To him she was, at the worst, only the same wilful and spoiled child she had always been, while he was over twenty years her senior.  What he hoped for was that her common sense, her breeding, and her pride would come to the rescue, and that after her pique had spent itself, she would become once more the loving wife.

And it is quite possible that this hope might have been realized had it not been for one of those unfortunate and greatly to be regretted concurrences which so often precede if they do not precipitate many of life’s catastrophes.