“I dare say you’d like me to go,” I said to the Colonel, getting up. “I suppose you’ve heard that blackguard has deserted her,” he cried explosively. I hesitated. “You know how people gossip,” I answered. “I was vaguely told that something was wrong.” “He’s bolted. He’s gone off to Paris with a woman. He’s left Amy without a penny.” “I’m awfully sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. The Colonel gulped down his whisky. He was a tall, lean man of fifty, with a drooping moustache and grey hair. He had pale blue eyes and a weak mouth. I remembered from my previous meeting with him that he had a foolish face, and was proud of the fact that for the ten years before he left the army he had played polo three days a week. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Strickland wants to be bothered with me just now,” I said. “Will you tell her how sorry I am? If there’s anything I can do. I shall be delighted to do it.” He took no notice of me. “I don’t know what’s to become of her. And then there are the children. Are they going to live on air? Seventeen years.” “What about seventeen years?” “They’ve been married,” he snapped. “I never liked him. Of course he was my brother-in-law, and I made the best of it. Did you think him a gentleman? She ought never to have married him.” “Is it absolutely final?” “There’s only one thing for her to do, and that’s to divorce him. That’s what I was telling her when you came in. ‘Fire in with your petition, my dear Amy,’ I said. ‘You owe it to yourself and you owe it to the children.’ He’d better not let me catch sight of him. I’d thrash him within an inch of his life.” I could not help thinking that Colonel MacAndrew might have some difficulty in doing this, since Strickland had struck me as a hefty fellow, but I did not say anything. It is always distressing when outraged morality does not possess the strength of arm to administer direct chastisement on the sinner. I was making up my mind to another attempt at going when Mrs. Strickland came back. She had dried her eyes and powdered her nose. “I’m sorry I broke down,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t go away.” She sat down. I did not at all know what to say. I felt a certain shyness at referring to matters which were no concern of mine. I did not then know the besetting sin of woman, the passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who is willing to listen. Mrs. Strickland seemed to make an effort over herself. “Are people talking about it?” she asked. I was taken aback by her assumption that I knew all about her domestic misfortune. “I’ve only just come back. The only person I’ve seen is Rose Waterford.” Mrs. Strickland clasped her hands. “Tell me exactly what she said.” And when I hesitated, she insisted. “I particularly want to know.” “You know the way people talk. She’s not very reliable, is she? She said your husband had left you.” “Is that all?” I did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford’s parting reference to a girl from a tea-shop. I lied.