written to Miles that he is to return as soon as ever he thinks fit. He seems to be very tied by his studies, so that I do not like to press a hasty decision. You must talk it over together." Nora had received this letter by the afternoon’s post. She was reading it a second time when Wolff entered the room. He had on his parade uniform, and the cheery clatter of his sword and spurs jarred on her overstrung nerves. "Why this magnificence?" she asked, trying to disguise her unreasonable irritability. "Is there anything unusual?" "A review to which I am commanded," he answered quietly. "I may be home a little late for supper. I expect you will go and see Aunt Magda and Hildegarde. They will think it curious if you do not go soon." "They have only just arrived," Nora said in the same tone of smothered irritation. "I could not have gone before." Wolff bent over the back of her chair and kissed her. "Please go!" he said coaxingly. "You used to be fond of them both, and they have been very good to us. Be nice to them—for my sake." She was silent a moment, as though struck by a new thought. Then she nodded. "I shall go this afternoon. Robert was coming, but it does not matter." "Captain Arnold?" Wolff drew himself suddenly upright. "Were you expecting him?" "Yes; he was coming to see me. Have you any objection?" She had heard the colder, graver note in his voice, and it stung her. Was Arnold also to come between them—Arnold, in whose hands lay the one chance of rescue from the coming catastrophe? Was her last friend to be taken from her by a reasonless, unworthy distrust? She looked up into her husband’s tanned face with a directness which was not unlike defiance. "_I_ have no objection," he answered her at last. "You know everything pleases me that makes you happy. I only beg of you to be careful." "Careful!" she echoed. "Captain Arnold has been in Berlin a month," he went on. "It is obvious that he has stayed for your sake, and for my part I am glad enough. But there are the evil tongues, little wife." She sprang to her feet. If she could only have told him, only unburdened her heart of its crushing trouble, then perhaps he would understand, and the widening cleft between them be bridged. The words of a reckless confession trembled on her lips; but she remembered Bauer and his promise: "I swear I will kill him"; and the confession turned to bitterness, to an impotent revolt against the circumstances of her life. "The evil tongues!" she echoed scornfully. "Why should I mind what they say now? They have taken everything from me—all my friends. I have only Robert left. Is it wrong to have friends in this country—friends who do not listen to the verdict of—of enemies?"