Helena was overwhelmed. She had rehearsed so many meetings--always with one idea: to seem at ease in an united home--and none of them of course was right. "Oh no, he's all right," she said in confusion. How could she explain? "He wants to see you first. In there!" And the bewildered Ruth, scarce entered, still with her umbrella, was thrust at once towards another door; leaving Helena with the reflection that after all things had not turned out too badly, even though all the rehearsals had been absolutely useless. Hubert jumped up from his table with a cry of welcome. "But Ruth!" he said, holding her by both arms, "what's happened? I should not have known you." He did not realise the difference which changed environment can make in the chameleon, Woman. "Well, it's three years," she explained. "But you look ten years younger!" he cried, laughing. Just for a moment he forgot his troubles. It was incredible, this new Ruth with firm cheeks and bright colour; gayer even of costume. He could not understand--and he was little used to that. "I know!" he said; and then accusingly; "Ruth, you're in love." At once a little of the old-time pathos crept into her face. "No," she replied, "I think I've left all that too late." "What is it, then?" persisted he, manlike. "It's Norfolk," she said. Not for a million pounds would she have told him it was Freedom.... "Tell me, Hugh," she added quickly, "what has happened? Why did you wire for me? Everything seems quite all right!" "Everything is utterly all wrong," answered Hubert, finding some consolation in a saying so tremendous; "it couldn't possibly be worse," and he poured the whole story forth with the accumulated passion of a week's not easy silence. How many times he had rehearsed his grievance to himself--when he felt any danger of relenting! She listened to the end, attentively, in silence, and as she listened, it occurred to her too that these three years had wrought a miracle of change in her. All this, that he was hurling forth indignantly, seemed to her now so tragically small. She realised the pathos of a life in which--as with her, in the days gone by--one sense of wrong after another would always wreck his happiness and wreck the life of any one he loved. It had been her; now it was Helena; there always would be, must be, a victim to his tragical self-centred brooding. And he would not be happy, ever. He would stand alone upon the dignity of his achievement; alone, he would distress himself that nobody considered his work, him; alone, upon his deathbed, he would understand too late that he had never lived at all. She looked at him with pity as he ended, the tempest lulled by its own blown-out fury. "Well," he said presently, as she was silent. "I can't understand," Ruth answered slowly. "Can't understand?"