"How was it that he came home so unexpectedly?" "Heaven knows. Perhaps he wanted to give his wife a surprise--a grim joke in such a husband; and the result was grimmer than he could have anticipated." There was a savage bitterness in his tone that shocked the tender-hearted woman. "Don't speak of it like that, Claude. It is too dreadful to think of. He was a devoted husband, from all that I have heard; only too blindly indulgent, letting his wife lead the wretched, empty-headed existence that can spoil even a good woman." They were at Mrs. Rutherford's door by this time, and she asked her son to give her a few minutes more before he went away. "As long as you like," he said. "I am at a loose end. My usual diversions are out of the question; and all manner of work is impossible." "You must go away, Claude. You are too sensitive, too warm-hearted to get over this business easily. You ought to leave London for a long time." And then, with her hand on his shoulder, looking up at him with tearful solicitude, she enlarged upon that source of consolation to which a woman of deep religious convictions turns instinctively in the time of trouble. She reminded him of his happy and innocent boyhood, the unquestioning faith of those early years, before the leaven of doubt had entered his mind, before the Christian youth had become the trifler and cynic. He listened in silence, with downcast eyes, and then, tenderly kissing her, he said gently: "Yes, perhaps there lies the cure. I must go back to those tranquil days. I must leave this hateful town. Yes, mother, I mean to go away--for a long time. I shall take your advice. If you see Father Hammond I should like you to tell him about this talk of ours." "Why not go to him at once and make your confession? You would feel happier afterwards." "I have not come to that yet. I mean to have a talk with him later. _A riverdervi, Madre mia._" "Where are you going?" "I don't know. To my rooms, most likely. I have letters to write." He was gone before she could question him further. That business of letter-writing was the most arduous work he knew. Since he had "chucked" art, his days had no more strenuous employment; his life was the over-occupied existence of a man of pleasure. CHAPTER XV