He judged her, and therewith, himself. Looking back upon the four years since Chloe Fairmile had thrown him over, it seemed to him that, in some ways, he had made a good job of his life, and, in others, a bad one. As to the money, that was neither here nor there. It had been amusing to have so much of it; though of late Daphne's constant reminders that the fortune was hers and not his, had been like grit in the mouth. But he did not find that boundless wealth had made as much difference to him as he had expected. On the other hand, he had been much happier with Daphne than he had thought he should be, up to the time of their coming to Heston. She wasn't easy to live with, and she had been often, before now, ridiculously jealous; but you could not, apparently, live with a woman without getting very fond of her--he couldn't--especially if she had given you a child; and if Daphne had turned against him now, for a bit--well, he could not swear to himself that he had been free from blame; and it perhaps served him right for having gone out deliberately to the States to marry money--with a wife thrown in--in that shabby sort of way. But, now, to straighten out this coil; to shake himself finally free of Chloe, and make Daphne happy again! He vowed to himself that he could and would make her happy--just as she had been in their early days together. The memory of her lying white and exhausted after child-birth, with the little dark head beside her, came across him, and melted him; he thought of her with longing and tenderness. With a deep breath he raised himself on his seat; in the old Greek phrase, "the gods breathed courage into his soul"; and as he stretched out an indifferent hand toward Chloe's letters on the trunk, Roger Barnes had perhaps reached the highest point of his moral history; he had become conscious of himself as a moral being choosing good or evil; and he had chosen good. It was not so much that his conscience accused him greatly with regard to Chloe. For that his normal standards were not fine enough. It was rather a kind of "serious call," something akin to conversion, or that might have been conversion, which befell him in this dusty room, amid the night-silence. As he took up Chloe's letters he did not notice that the door had quietly opened behind him, and that a figure stood on the threshold. A voice struck into the stillness. "Roger!" He turned with a movement that scattered all his own letters on the floor. Daphne stood before him--but with the eyes of a mad woman. Her hand shook on the handle of the door. "What are you doing here?" She flung out the question like a blow. "Hallo, Daphne!--is that you?" He tried to laugh. "I'm only looking up some old papers; no joke, in all this rubbish." He pointed to it. "What old papers?"