“I don’t wish to influence you,” he said, “but I thought you might wish to make your will in substance the same as mine. So after I left you yesterday I had them both drawn up. They are in my great coat pocket now, we might as well get them signed and done with. The landlady and the servant will witness them.” He produced two long envelopes from his pocket, and Mrs. Hooper and the servant were called. “Alfred,” Aunt Anne said, when they were alone again, and she read over the documents, “your name is in my will, but in yours you only say you ‘leave everything to my wife.’” “Surely that is sufficient?” he said shortly. “Of course, dear, for I am”—the voice dropped, as almost a blush came upon the withered cheek—“your wife now.” Mr. Wimple put his lips together again after his favourite manner and said nothing. She watched him curiously, a little fear seemed to overtake her, her hands, half trembling, sought each other. “Have I displeased you, Alfred,” she asked gently; “my darling, have I displeased you?” “No,” he answered drily; “but I am not very sentimental, Anne. Perhaps you had better remember that,” and he put the wills carefully into his pocket. “We will go by the 5.35 train. By the way, you might meet me at the station,” and he looked at her steadfastly. “If you do not come back for me I shall not go at all,” and something like an angry flash came from her eyes. He hesitated a moment. “Very well,” he answered, “I will come back for you.” She watched him go down the stairs, she listened while he opened the street door and closed it—to his footsteps growing fainter along the pavement outside; then she went back into the little drawing-room and shut herself in, and put her head down on the lumpy sofa-cushion and sobbed with the bitter disappointment and hopelessness that had suddenly opened itself out before her. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. Six months later. Walter was back in England, better in health, brown and handsome. Florence was in a seventh heaven of happiness. Her husband was her very devoted lover; the children were as good as gold; the little house near Regent’s Park was decorated with all manner of Indian draperies and _bric-à-brac_—what more could the heart of woman desire? “Really,” she said, “it was worth your going away to know the delight of getting you back again.” “Yes, darling; shall I go away again?” “No, you dear stupid! Walter, why doesn’t Mr. Fisher come and see us? He has only been once since you returned, and then he seemed most anxious to go away again.” “I suppose he was afraid Ethel Dunlop would come in.” “I wish he hadn’t fallen in love with her,” Florence said; “I shall always reproach myself about it. But, really, he was so good and kind that I half hoped she would like him.” “A woman under thirty doesn’t marry a man merely because he is good and kind, unless matrimony is her profession.”