Fool--fool that he had been! He writhed to recall his infatuation, and all that it implied. He thought of it incessantly. He did no work. He scarcely slept. He suffered as a highly-strung nature always suffers, keenly, extravagantly--to the serious danger of health and sanity. When she saw him at her country home, Rose had felt that poetic justice was satisfied. Robert, in her opinion, and she was no lenient judge, had borne enough. He opened the door of the flat with his latch-key, and Smithers, the parlor-maid, came running down the hall. There was suppressed excitement in her demeanor, but he scarcely noticed it, as he bade her good-evening, and put his wraps down on the table. There were flowers in the hall. He noticed them, and thought of Cecily. She always suggested flowers. She had a way of filling every pot and pan in the house with them. He was passing the door of her bedroom. It was ajar, and there was a light within--flickering firelight. He wondered why--wondered with a pang at his heart. It was cruel to light a fire in there, it made it seem so much as though Cecily---- “Robin!” He started violently, and felt the color die out of his face. His name was repeated, the “little” name that Cecily had not used for years. He pushed open the door. His wife sat by the fire, looking back over her shoulder. She was in a tea-gown of soft silk, which fell away from her arms. As he stood on the threshold, she rose, smiling, as he had often dreamt he saw her, and held her hands out towards him. Somehow he stumbled to her, and fell on his knees at her feet. She bent down to him, and stroked his hair. “Robin, dear,” she said, gently, as a mother speaks to her child. “Oh, Robin, what a thin little boy!” He began to sob convulsively, like a child, and she put her arms round him, and held him--in silence.... Presently he began to speak, pouring out his love and longing for her in the old voluble, vehement fashion, accusing himself--praying for forgiveness. She sighed a little as she soothed him. “But it _is_ all right, darling, isn’t it?” he said anxiously at last. “Really all right, I mean?” “Yes, Robin, we’re going to understand each other in future.” “And you _do_ forgive me, Cis--for everything?” “Yes, dear--hush! Don’t let us talk about it.” “And you love me?” he urged, with the persistence of a child. She hesitated, almost imperceptibly, before she assented. “As you used to?” he asked, breathlessly. “In the old way? Just the same?” She looked at him with troubled eyes. “Robin, shall we begin by not asking each other too many questions?” The arms he had clasped round her dropped slowly. “Then you don’t!” There was inexpressible disappointment in his tone. “We can’t set the clock back,” said Cecily, at last, slowly. “I am a different person now.” He put his head on to her knee. “I want the old Cecily!” he cried. Cecily’s eyes filled with tears. When he raised his head he saw them.