Arden watched them as they went out of the room--she tottering, as she leant on Edgar’s arm, moving as he moved, like one blind. Arthur Arden was left behind with his papers, and with the thought of that other woman, who had claimed him for her husband. How clearly he remembered her--her impertinence, her rude carelessness, her manners, that were of the shop, and knew no better training! Their short life together came back to him like a picture. How soon his foolish passion for her (as he described it to himself) had blown over!--how weary of her he had grown! And now, what was to become of him? If Clare did anything desperate--if she went and blazoned it about, and removed the children, and took the whole matter in a passionate way, it would not be she alone who would be the sufferer. The woman is the sufferer, people say, in such cases; but this man groaned when he thought, if he could not do something to avert it, what ruin must overtake him. If Clare left his house, all honour, character, position would go with her; he could never hold up his head again. He would retain everything he had before, yet he would lose everything--not only her and his children, of whom he was as fond as it was possible to be of any but himself, but every scrap of popular regard, society, the support of his fellows. All would go from him if this devil could not be silenced--if Clare could not be conciliated. He rose to his feet, feeling sick and giddy, and from a corner, behind the shadow of the window-curtains, saw his wife--that is, the woman who was no longer his wife--drive away from the door. He was so wretched that he could not even relieve his mind by swearing at Edgar. He had not energy enough to think of Edgar, or any one else. Sometimes, indeed, with a sharp pang, there would gleam across him a sudden vision of his little boy, Clare’s son, the beautiful child he had been so proud of, but who--even if Clare should make it up, and brave the shame and wrong--was ruined and disgraced, and no more the heir of Arden than any beggar on the road. Poor wretch! when that thought came across him, I think all the wrongs that Arthur Arden had done in this world were avenged. He writhed under the sudden thought. He burst out in sudden crying and sobbing for one miserable moment. It was intolerable--he could not bear it; yet had to bear it, as we all have, whether our errors are of our own making or not.