“‘No, please, Gerald, no,’ she said, in a fluttered, nervous voice. ‘It may be--I don’t know--I’d rather you stayed.’ “I had known Paul Johnson for a long time. I had seen him change from a silent youth into a diffident, ineffectual man; I had been present at his wedding; and I had felt vaguely sorry for him as I shook hands with his bride and scanned for a hurried moment the hard-set rigor of her mouth. I had noticed his absence from the club, and learnt later of his resignation. From time to time I had seen him at dinner parties and garden parties, always silent, almost shy, his eyes timidly following his wife. I had not seen him, though, since his romance with Margaret. I was curious to know if it had altered him, whether he was more of a man, more confident, or whether he had been overwhelmed, scorched, shrivelled by the hot flame of her love for him. “His appearance, as he stood for a moment irresolute in the centre of the room, shifting from one foot to the other, with one finger plucking at the bottom button of his waistcoat and his other hand raised to stroke the curling down of his beard, gave me small guide to whatsoever change the past eighteen months might have worked in him. He was obviously the prey of one emotion, an emotion that obliterated the chance characteristics of environment. He was a man wounded, frightened, desperate. Without acknowledging my presence, without seeming even to notice me he began to pour forth an eager stream of words. “‘Oh, Margaret, my dear! my dear! I don’t know what to do, it’s terrible after all these months, after all we’ve meant one to another, for this to happen. Oh! my dear! my dear!’ “He stumbled towards her, sat on the edge of the footstool at her feet, and leant his face forward in his hands. “She rested her hand upon his shoulder. “‘What is it, Paul, darling?’ “Her voice was soft and caressing: the note of anger and impatience had passed from it utterly. ‘That is how he will always win her back to him,’ I thought. ‘He is weak and makes her pity him, a sort of maternal mistress.’ “And again her voice said gently: ‘What is it, my darling, tell me?’ “For an answer he dived his hand into his breast pocket, withdrew a letter, and handed it to her. “‘Read that,’ he said. ‘It’ll explain everything. Someone has written to my wife, has told her all about us. You’ll see, it’s there, read it!’ “She took the letter, a short, five-line thing, unsigned, undated. Her cheeks flushed, she turned to him and laid her hand on his. ‘Oh, Paul!’ she said, ‘Paul!’ “There was a poignant, dramatic silence. Then he spoke again in the calm tones of despair. “‘There’s nothing to be done; you know how things are with me. I am weak, I daresay, but I’ll have to do what my wife wants. There’s my father, you see: it would break his heart, and our child, I can’t leave him with my wife; I can’t, I owe that much to him.’ “‘So it’s over then, Paul?’