All this time Sylvia had given no sign.  So the old gentleman began to feel a trifle uneasy.  “Mind you,” he said, “I’m not saying that men ought to be like that.  They deserve a good hiding, most of them—­they’re very few of them fit to associate with a good woman.  I’ve always said that no man is really good enough for a good woman.  But my point is that when you select one to punish, you select not the guiltiest one, but simply the one who’s had the misfortune to fall under suspicion.  And he knows that’s not fair; he’d have to be more than human if deep in his soul he did not bitterly resent it.  You understand me?”

“I understand,” she replied, in the same repressed voice.

And the doctor rose and laid his hand on her shoulder.  “I’m going home,” he said—­“very probably we’ll never meet each other again.  I see you making a great mistake, laying up unhappiness for yourself in the future; and I wish to prevent it if I can.  I wish to persuade you to face the facts of the world in which we live.  So I am going to tell you something that I never expected I should tell to a lady.”

He was looking her straight in the eye.  “You see me—­I’m an old man, and I seem fairly respectable to you.  You’ve laughed at me some, but even so, you’ve found it possible to get along with me without too great repugnance.  Well, I’ve had this disease; I’ve had it, and nevertheless I’ve raised six fine, sturdy children.  More than that—­ I’m not free to name anybody else, but I happen to know positively that among the men your husband employs on this island there are two who have the disease right now.  And the next charming and well-bred gentleman you are introduced to, just reflect that there are at least eight chances in ten that he has had the disease, and perhaps three or four in ten that he has it at the minute he’s shaking hands with you.  And now you think that over, and stop tormenting your poor husband!”

6.  One of the first things I did when I reached New York was to send a little love-letter to Sylvia.  I said nothing that would distress her; I merely assured her that she was in my thoughts, and that I should look to see her in New York, when we could have a good talk.  I put this in a plain envelope, with a typewritten address, and registered it in the name of my stenographer.  The receipt came back, signed by an unknown hand, probably the secretary’s.  I found out later that the letter never got to Sylvia.

No doubt it was the occasion of renewed efforts upon her husband’s part to obtain from her the promise he desired.  He would not be put off with excuses; and at last he got her answer, in the shape of a letter which she told him she intended to mail to me.  In this letter she announced her decision that she owed it to her baby to avoid all excitement and nervous strain during the time that she was nursing it.  Her husband had sent for the yacht, and they were going to Scotland, and in the winter to the Mediterranean and the Nile.  Meantime she would not correspond with me; but she wished me to know that there was to be no break in our friendship, and that she would see me upon her return to New York.