He chose the road which led to Ben’s ranch, and he went along at an almost feverish pace, not stopping to rest for a single moment, during all those seven miles. When Ben saw him, he knew at once from the terrible expression on his face that some trouble had befallen him. He led him silently into the house, pushed him gently into the arm-chair, and, with a tenderness all his own, forced him to take some food and stimulant; and then drawing his chair alongside, and lighting his pipe afresh, he waited, as close friends know how to wait, for the moment when the heart desires to ease itself. At last Robert spoke, but so quietly that his very manner would have awed any listener, and it filled Ben with apprehension. “Ben,” he said, “Hilda has told me to-night how she hates the whole life. She bitterly regrets having come, she bitterly reproaches me for having settled in the country, and I recognise the truth of everything she says. She yearns to be free again, and she shall have her freedom. It is the very least I can do for her. But I’m a stricken man. I’ve been fool enough to think she cared for me--I’ve loved her so much myself, that it did not seem possible she could not care a little for me--and I’ve been fool enough to try and make myself believe that in time she might get reconciled to this Californian life. I might have known it was never at any moment possible. I’ve made a wretched failure of my life and career over in England and over here, and I’ve earned for myself not her love, nor her tenderness, nor even her sympathy, but her scorn. Ben, I felt it in every word she said. I can never forget my humiliation, I can never forget her contempt. I could have fought through other things, but not that. If that is all one gets for all one’s years of longing and labour, then the game is not worth the candle. Do you remember me telling you that the worst thing which could happen to me would be, not her changing her mind and throwing me over, but her disappointment and her scorn? Do you remember that? You laughed at me, and tried to chase away my misgivings, but it seems to me now that our misgivings are about the only things in our lives which cannot be called failures.” Ben drew nearer to his friend. “Dear old man,” he said, “take heart again. She was home-sick perhaps, and all the home-longings came leaping out. She could not have meant to be hard. She will bitterly regret her words, and all will be well between you again. You will forgive her, and the wound will be healed.” “There is nothing to forgive,” Robert said quietly. “I don’t blame her at all, but I blame myself bitterly, bitterly.” “But I blame her,” said Ben, fiercely, “and face to face I shall tell her so.” “The only thing I have against her is that she has not cared in the very least for me,” Robert said, “and words cannot mend that, Ben.”