"If Dora fails her husband now——" said Evelyn. She stopped. "Oh, if it were but the ideal marriage," said Lady Wereminster. "With the right woman he would have braved all this and carried it through triumphantly. They have been married long enough now to have begun to form the deeper ties of union and of confidence. It partly amuses, partly hurts me when people talk of the early days of marriage as though all the sweetness and ardour and passion and tenderness of life were concentrated in them. When two people really love each other those things not only endure and strengthen, but take exquisite sanctity as years go by. The plant strengthens. Its blooms are finer. As the years go, its colour and texture are fit to grow in the Garden of God. Something of the Eternal Love has filtered directly through from some crevice of heaven and shone upon them; their scent isn’t of this world, but eternity." "And you think that might apply to Mr. Farquharson and his wife?" said Evelyn. She stood quite silently, looking away from Lady Wereminster. "Never," said Lady Wereminster; "but men are human. They’re like dogs who are hurt. They cringe away into corners where, for a while, they miss accustomed voices, and presently creep out, ready to lick the hand of even the hardest master so long as he is master. When men are hurt they slink off, in much the same way; but daily routine tells. They are creatures of habit, who miss even the harshest voice if they have once got used to it. Dora Farquharson is on the spot, and there’s the other tie.... How far that will tell one doesn’t know. Fatherhood affects different men differently, but I have an idea it will constitute a strong claim on Mr. Farquharson." There was a knock at Evelyn’s bedroom door; her maid entered with a letter. "The man is waiting for an answer, ma’am." "Excuse me," said Evelyn. The letter was from Mrs. Farquharson, so hurried, so incoherent that she did not at first grasp the meaning of the few excited words. "Please come at once, no matter what you’re doing. I must have you; I must speak to you. I am almost out of my mind with agony and horror; you mustn’t fail me. Richard doesn’t know I’m writing. I don’t know what to do. For God’s sake, come at once." "She’s failed him again," said Evelyn slowly. Lady Wereminster snatched the letter from her. "It isn’t that at all. Here, get on your things, I’ll take you on in the car. That it should come to-day of all days—poor Mr. Farquharson!"