"Indeed, my dear, you'll do nothing of the kind. You'd spoil him altogether, that's what you'd do. I understand Augustine and he understands me. He'd break out in all sorts of fresh places with any other treatment than what I give him. Besides, he likes to be alone--he always says I'm the only woman he could stand. Not that he means it, you know--he doesn't. He thinks all women a nuisance, except when he's ill--then he's glad enough to have 'em, I can tell you. Now, dear, I must really go. I shall have tea at the Stores. Who's that at the door I wonder?--let me get out of sight. Good-bye, Miriam dear." She kissed her and hurried off. They were in the dining-room. Miriam remained where she was, awaiting the announcement of her visitor whoever it might prove to be. The name brought in to her was that of "Mrs. Latham." "Mrs. Latham?" she repeated to herself. "I don't know any Mrs. Latham." She went into the little drawing-room. Her visitor was closely veiled and in the deepest black. She looked at her. "You don't know me, Miriam?" "Hilda! Is it you? Mrs. Latham!--but---" "Yes, Miriam, I am Mrs. Latham. But my husband is dead. He died only a month ago!" "It is only a year since Gerald died." "Poor Gerald--did he forgive me for leaving him?" "He never forgot--I cannot say whether he forgave. Your name was last on his lips--not mine!" "My name? And you were so good to him? Miriam, will _you_ forgive?" "I--yes, I forgive. It was him you wronged more than me, for I could guide my life--he couldn't. He was weak, helpless--little more than a child. And you led him further astray, Hilda. And yet he loved you as he never loved me, even at the end." "Oh, Miriam, you don't know what I've suffered. I am not so wholly to blame as you think. You don't know what my life was--from the merest child I was neglected. I was never taught to care save for myself. I was pampered, spoiled, allowed to run utterly wild. My only teaching was to put a value on myself--to see to it that I secured the biggest prize in marriage. You cannot afterwards undo the evil done by an up-bringing such as mine. And my instincts were never for good, Miriam. I secured through John Dundas all that I craved, riches, position, ease, gaiety. And when I lost them, remember, I lost what was to me all. Gerald loved me I know; yes, and I loved him as much as it was in me to love any man. I could not resist the temptation that assailed me. But I was prepared to do my duty by him, Miriam. I would have gone on loving him. I would have been with him at the end--" "Why, then, did you leave him?"