His swift imagination pictured a lonely hotel death-bed among the palms and mimosa of the Côte d'Azur, a pretty and charming girl fading away from the blue white and gold with no loving hands to tend her, and only the paid services of strangers to speed or assuage the young soul's passage from sunshine and laughter to the unknown. "You must go to her at once, sweetheart," he said gravely. "Oh, I _must_! You don't mind my leaving you?" "How can you ask it? But I will come with you. We will both go. You will want a man." Mary hesitated for a second, and then she shook her head. "I shall manage quite well by myself," she said. "It will be better so. I'm quite used to travelling alone as you know. And the journey to Nice is nothing. I shall be in one carriage all the way from Calais. You could come out after, if necessary." "I would come gladly, dear." "I know, Gillie, and it's sweet of you. But you couldn't be of use and it would be miserable for you. It is better that I should be alone with Dolly. I can always wire if I want you." "As you think best, dear. Then I will stay quietly down here." "Yes, do. You have that poem to work on, 'A Lady in a Library.' It is a beautiful fancy and will make you greater than ever! It's quite the best thing you've done so far. And then there's the shooting." "Oh, I shall do very well, Molly. Don't bother about me, dear." She held him closer. Her cool white arms were around his neck. "But I always do bother about you, husband," she whispered, "because I love you better than anything else in the world. It is sweet of you to let me go like this. And I feel so much happier about you now, since the doctor has come to the village." He winced with pain and shame at her loving words. A pang went right through him. It passed as swiftly as it had come. Sweet and loving women too often provide men with excuses for their own ill conduct. Lothian knew that--under the special circumstances of which his wife knew nothing--it was his duty to go with Mary. But he didn't want to go. He would have hated going. Already a wide vista was opening before him--a freedom, an absolute freedom! Wild music! The Wine of Life! Now, if ever, Fate, Destiny, call it what he would, was preparing the choicest banquet. He had met Rita. Rita was waiting, he could be with Rita! And yet, so subtle and tortuous is the play of egoism upon conscience, he felt pleased with himself for his ready concurrence in his wife's plans. He assumed the rôle she gave him with avidity, and when he answered her she thought him the best and noblest of men. "It will be dreadful without you, darling, but you are quite right to go. Send for me if you want me. I'll catch the next boat. But I have my work to do, and I can see a good deal of Morton Sims"--he knew well, and felt with shame, the cunning of this last statement--"and if I'm dull I can always run up to town for a day or two and stay at the club."