She shrugged her shoulders; they were very pretty ones; then she sang. They had nothing there she knew but Gounod’s “There is a green hill far away.” And so she sang that. She sang it beautifully. Gladys was sitting up for him, she had had a headache and could not accompany him. She always had a headache if there was the chance of her meeting Edith le Mentier. She had dressed very sweetly to welcome him, and looked very young and pathetic. It was so late that he scolded her for sitting up for him, but she told him she had something special to say, and took him into the library, shutting the door. The fire gleamed cheerily, and Jack, as he leaned back in a big arm-chair, and looked at the pretty, eager face opposite him, felt more of a brute than ever. “I have had Muriel with me all the afternoon,” she began nervously, “and she made me promise to talk it all over frankly with you. She’s been so good to me, Jack!—and I told her that I would——” She hesitated, and looked at the fire. He could see that her lips trembled, and a sudden longing to take her in his arms and comfort her came over him, as he had done one short year ago in the Indian garden. But he did not—it was some time since he had done so. And there was this evening’s terrible barrier in between. “Do you know, Jack, we haven’t been married quite a year, and yet we aren’t very happy, are we? I’m afraid I have been terribly to blame, Jack. I wanted to tell you so long ago, but you didn’t—didn’t seem to care a bit. Then you began to see such a lot of that horrible woman, and I hated that, and I thought I hated you! People told me I ought to amuse myself, and that there were other men besides neglectful husbands—and Major Kennedy, he’s a great friend of yours, and he came so often to the house—and you never seemed to care. Indeed, I don’t believe you ever took the trouble to find out, and I was very miserable and silly! I daresay being miserable should have made me wise, but you were the highest thing I loved, and _still_ love, Jack, and you didn’t care!” She paused a moment, catching her breath, and he grew white in a sudden agony of fear and pain. He had lived with this woman—she was his wife! He had married her a young, untried girl, and he had given her the key to all the dangers, and left her to face them alone. He dared not interrupt her, and so he waited, fearing each heavy, silent moment as it passed.