A truly impossible fellow, reflected Jack, as he drove back to barracks. Charming in other respects—but on the subject of his wife quite impossible. And deep down inside a warning voice began to make itself heard—a voice that counselled caution. With a husband like that the most ordinary everyday politeness would be misconstrued. And Jack Denver was quite sufficiently honest with himself to realize that, if he saw much of Hilda Garling, he would have considerable difficulty in keeping things on the plane of conventional courtesy. In fact, as he dressed for mess that night he apostrophized his reflection in the glass in no uncertain manner. “You’re nine-tenths of the way towards falling in love with another man’s wife. And that’s a complication at the best of times. But, with a husband like that, it’s the devil. So take a pull at yourself, young feller; take a pull.” And a pull he did take—for quite a fortnight. Then, as luck would have it, duty took him to Portsmouth. He couldn’t get back to Aldershot the same night, and the following morning he started back in his car. And as he got near the Pines his pace grew slower and slower. Finally he stopped and lit a cigarette. “Don’t be a fool,” said one voice. “Go on; there’s polo at the club this afternoon.” “You’ve played polo every day for the last week,” said another voice. “The man can’t eat you if you ask for lunch. Don’t be a coward.” And since it’s better to be called a fool than a coward, the second voice won. Jack Denver went to the Pines for the second time. And when he left at about five o’clock the nine-tenths had changed to nineteen-twentieths. Of course, the thing was a foregone conclusion. He got into the habit of going about once a week, and one day it all came out with a rush—like a stream that had been temporarily dammed. They were in the garden—the two of them, and something seemed suddenly to snap. “Come away with me, my darling,” he muttered. “This man is an impossible husband for you. I’ve got plenty of money, and I’m chucking the service, anyhow.” He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew back. “Don’t, dear, don’t,” she said, a little breathlessly. “It’s impossible.” “Why is it impossible?” he demanded. “You love me, Hilda—I know that. And I worship the very ground you walk on. Why is it impossible?” “Because it would kill Hubert,” she answered, steadily. “I’ve never told you before, Jack, but I must now. You merely thought he was delicate. It’s his heart; and any sudden shock would kill him. And we couldn’t do that, Jack—could we?” “And if it wasn’t for that?” he asked, dully. She took a deep breath. “If it wasn’t for that, my man,” she whispered, “I’d go to the end of the world with you to-morrow.”