“‘Get yourself crucified’? Wasn’t he right? Since people began to doubt the old heaven and hell, the churches have been losing their power: they had less to offer, less to threaten; and their ministers became officials instead of martyrs. Christianity was born of one martyrdom; and it will only die when there are no more martyrs. There were martyrs in the war, if we could only make people remember them . . .” “But the war’s over,” I interrupted. “How can you keep that exaltation alive in time of peace?” The question was unanswered when I turned the head of the car, next day, towards London. We were both shirking our private difficulties; and, though we argued endlessly about the world as we wished to make it, the shadow of our own narrow troubles darkened that free, generous concern for humanity which we talked so eagerly of inculcating in people whose narrow troubles engrossed them no less blindly. “I’d better tell Sonia we’re on our way back,” said O’Rane. “If you’ve any idea where we shall be to-morrow morning, I’ll say she can wire to the post-office.” “Is she at Crowley Court?,” I asked. “Yes. Remember taking her down there the night Tom’s death came through? She’d put her eyes on sticks for you over that, George.” “She was at her wits’ end, poor child,” I began. Then, whether or no he was spreading a snare for me, I thought of Barbara by herself at the Abbey, reading of a “well-known playwright’s death” and stumbling blindly through the dim, panelled rooms in vain search of some one to comfort her. “We can go back by way of Crowley Court,” I said. “I’ll send Babs a telegram. If she’s still at the Abbey . . .” “I’m entirely in your hands,” said O’Rane. That night we lay at Exeter; and next day we headed for Southampton. As we got into the car, I was given a telegram from Barbara: “_All well here hope you are enjoying yourselves can you possibly return by way of Crawleigh I need you._” 5 Only when I was committed irrevocably did I realize that I had not decided how I was to meet her. “I can’t pretend for five minutes,” I said. “I never could.” “She’s . . . entitled to see her own letters,” O’Rane suggested. “You opened this at her request . . .” “But, good God, man, she’s my wife!,” I broke out; and, remembering the sustained deceit of these fifteen months, I could not trust myself to say more.