"Nothing, Gerald--for the present--further than I think you had better go to bed." "Oh, that's just like you--after you have riled a chap. 'Pon my soul, Miriam, you're the most exasperating woman I know. You're always ready to go for me; you take precious good care, though, not to tell me much about yourself." "You know everything about me, Gerald." "No, I don't. That Jabez business is precious queer. Who is he?--what is he to you I should like to know?" "Jabez is not unlike yourself--a weakling and an ingrate. I tried to save him from himself, as I have tried to save you." "Oh, you seem to be a pretty old hand at experimenting with men. I don't believe you're any better than you ought to be!" The drink had mounted to his brain now, and he was quite beside himself. As Miriam left the room, she saw him pour out another half-tumbler of spirit. "I shall sleep in the small bedroom to-night," she said. "You will probably sleep on the floor." It was not the first time she had occupied that little room. Indeed, the number of occasions upon which she had been forced to do so, had been increasing all too frequently of late. She had made a huge mistake--she recognised it now. With such a man as this there could be no sense of security, hence no real happiness, though the sun of prosperity shone ever so brightly. With the pitying love of an angel she had put out her strong arm to pluck him from destruction. And for a time she had succeeded. But now he was eluding her grasp. The instinct within him was too strong for her to combat. His employer would soon come to complain of him. And then the end would soon be. Already he complained of her. Her very virtues were fast becoming faults in his eyes. But even now it was not of herself she thought, though her intellect was being starved, and her soul was sick with the sorrow of despair. No longer could she feel any hope for the future--for his future. Worn out and utterly dejected, she threw herself on the bed in the bare little room, and cried herself to sleep. Next morning Gerald rose late, and, it seemed, repentant. In truth, he rose from the floor which had been his bed that night. He took a cold bath, and so braced up his shattered nerves a trifle. She received him with a smile, and made no reference to what had been. He apologised, and she forgave him, and there the thing ended--for the time. She alone knew how her heart ached. It was Sunday. He went to church, and rebuked her because she said she felt unable to accompany him. From the window she watched him, smartly dressed and for all the world the most punctilious of men. His tendencies were strongly ritualistic. He would probably confess his sins and take holy vows about the future. But the future would be no better than the past for all that.