Herold saw that they did not understand, and, knowing their limitations, felt that even if they were enlightened, they would do more harm than good. As soon as he returned to town he tracked John to his office. John looked up from proof-sheets. “Just back? I nearly ran down yesterday. I should have done so if I had n't promised my aunt to go to church with her.” “You've quite taken to church-going lately,” said Herold, dryly. John laughed. “It pleases the old soul.” “And keeps you in Kilburn,” said Herold. “It might be something worse,” John growled. Then he banged the table with his fist. “Can you realize what it means to keep away from her? I think of her all day long, and I can't sleep at night for thinking of her. It 's idiotic, weak, disgraceful, wicked, any damned thing you like, but it's so.” And he glowered up into Herold's face. “I am eating myself out for her.” “What about Stella?” Herold asked. “That you can tell me. You've just come from her. I don't know. I 've kept away scrupulously enough, Heaven knows, and my letters are just footling things. But I've not heard from her for over a week. I waylay the postman and look over my letters like a silly ass of a boy.” “Have you told her about your marriage?” “Not yet.” Herold drew a deep breath and turned away and pretended to study a proof of the contents-bill of the next number of the Review that was pinned against the wall. He had come there to ask that question. He had half expected and wholly hoped for an answer in the affirmative. Stella's knowledge might have accounted for her metamorphosis. “She must be told at once,” he said, returning to the table. “Why?” “Because she loves you. You fool!” he exclaimed, “have n't I seen it? Has n't she all but told me so herself? And she has told you, in some sort of way, only you have made up your mind not to listen. Let me put matters plain before you. She says good-bye to you here in London, and goes home full of happiness and looks forward to your coming down invested in a new halo, and to your letters,--you know what sort of letters a man writes to the woman he loves,--and instead of all that you never go near her and you write her footling notes. What do you imagine she's thinking and feeling? What do you think any ordinary decent girl would think and feel in the circumstances?” “Stella is n't an ordinary girl,” said John, leaning back in his writing-chair and looking at Herold from beneath his heavy brows. “For that reason she thinks and feels a thousand times more acutely. She's ill, she's changed, she's the shadow of herself,” he went on fiercely, “and it's all through you.” He broke off and, as John said nothing, he put both hands on the table and leaned over and looked into John's eyes.