For a time he sat staring at the wall--across his mental vision floated pictures of his courtship and his short married life--of the beautiful woman he had caressed and who had caressed him--whose arms had been around his neck--whose ruddy head had lain on his shoulder--whose lips he had kissed--whose form he had embraced in a fury of tenderness--of the woman who was his wife--who was his wife for yet a little time longer, until the Courts could cut the bond asunder. The uncertainty that had dominated him was ended. He knew his mind _now_--knew whether he loved her still or whether that love was turned to hate. Why had he not known sooner? Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Why had he vacillated like a pendulum--not sure of himself nor of his feelings? Why had he had _any_ feeling for her since she had none for him?... He laughed--a little, bitter laugh--and turned his face deeper into the shadow. It was not pleasant to contemplate. It had been misery for him every day since that shameful one when he had found her gone--and waiting, dazed and unbelieving, had read the truth in the newspapers--the horrible, damning truth, that she had given herself to another man. And now--she had returned; flung aside by the man. Would he receive her! take her back! take someone's else leavings! a dishonored woman--lower than the hired ones who stand for pay, honest in their dishonor. Had she lost all idea of the fitness of things? Was she dead to every sense of shame that she should thus show herself at the Club--to all the mob--and flaunt her degradation before their very eyes--to their vast enjoyment and bitter tongues? And then to have met him--by accident, it was true; but none the less had she remained in seclusion it would not have happened, and he would not have been compelled to bear the ignominy of that scene, while a staringly curious crowd looked on, laughing slyly and with zest. It was horrible! horrible! He buried his face in his hands and groaned in spirit. The humiliation of it all pressed down upon him with overwhelming weight. He was ashamed to leave the Club-house--he was ashamed to remain--he was ashamed to be seen--he was ashamed to---- "What's up, old chap?" said a hearty voice beside him. "Can't you put, or have you been guessing wrong in the stock market--like the most of us lately?" Lorraine looked up to see Steuart Cameron stretch his long length in a chair opposite and draw out his tobacco bag. "Oh--is that you, Cameron?" said he. "No--that is, I've been feeling a--bit out of sorts the last day or so--stomach, I reckon. Have something?" "No, thanks--I've cut it out for a month," replied Cameron, neatly rolling a cigarette and licking it. "Do you know," striking a match and holding his head to one side while he deftly applied the flame--"I never before realized how long a month was--it's been a week since yesterday." "At that rate your month will be over in about four days," Lorraine replied, with a forced laugh.