‘How sweet you are!’ she cried. ‘I feel that what you say is true. I feel that that is what a wife should be to her husband. Please God, I will be so to Frank!’ ‘And one other piece of advice before I leave you,’ said Violet Wright. ‘Don’t ever take your husband for granted. Don’t ever accept his kiss or caress as a routine thing. Don’t ever relax those little attentions which you showed him in the earliest days. Don’t let the freshness go out of love, for the love may soon follow it, even when duty keeps the man true. It is the commonest mistake which married women make. It has caused more unhappiness than any other. They do not realise it until it is too late. Be keenly watchful for your husband’s wants and comforts. It is not the comfort but the attention which he values. If it is not there he will say nothing, if he is a good fellow, but he notices it all the same. She has changed, he thinks. And from that moment he will begin to change also. Be on your guard against that. It is very unselfish of me to give you all this wise counsel.’ ‘It is very good of you, and I feel that it is all so true. But why is it unselfish of you?’ ‘I only meant that I had no interest in the matter. What does it matter to me whether you keep his love or not. And yet I don’t know.’ She suddenly put her arms round Maude, and kissed her upon the cheek. ‘You are a good little sort, and I hope you will be happy.’ * * * * * Frank Crosse had disentangled himself from the rush of City men emerging from the Woking station, and he was walking swiftly through the gathering gloom along the vile, deeply-rutted road, which formed a short cut to The Lindens. Suddenly, with a sinking heart, he was aware of a tall graceful figure which was sweeping towards him. There could not be two women of that height, who carried themselves in that fashion. ‘Violet!’ ‘Hullo, Frankie! I thought it might be you, but those tall hats and black overcoats make every one alike. Your wife will be glad to see you.’ ‘Violet! You have ruined our happiness. How could you have the heart to do it! It is not for myself I speak, God knows. But to think of her feelings being so abused, her confidence so shaken—’ ‘All right, Frankie, there is nothing to be tragic about.’ ‘Haven’t you been to my house?’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘And seen her?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well then—’ ‘I didn’t give you away, my boy. I was a model of discretion. I give you my word that it is all right. And she’s a dear little soul, Frankie. You’re not worthy to varnish those pretty patent leathers of hers. You know you’re not. And by Jove, Frankie, if you had stayed with me yesterday I should never have forgiven you—no, never! I’ll resign in her favour. I will. But in no one else’s, and if ever I hear of your going wrong, my boy, or doing anything but the best with that sweet trusting woman, I’ll make you curse the day that ever you knew me—I will, by the living Jingo.’