I could not see her face clearly; but her voice thrilled me till I had to bite my lip and look away. I wondered how I had existed without her all these weeks. The long rest had given her back her old vitality. Her eyes, when we entered the hall, were shining; and for a moment I fancied that I was seeing her in a vision or that I was emerging from twelve days’ delirium. “My _dear_!,” I cried; and she laughed with childlike exultation at my joy in her. “Pleased to see your deserted and ill-used wife?” “Babs . . .” Her cheeks were pink from the biting cold outside; her hair and eye-lashes were spangled with tiny raindrops. As she flung her coat aside and twined her arms about my neck, a familiar, faint, warm fragrance rose from the carnations at her waist. As she clung to me and our lips met, I could have fancied that no other man had ever made her heart beat so quickly. “I’ve never _seen_ you like this before!,” I cried. “I’ve been getting well . . . for _your_ sake, sweetheart. I’ve been so patient, so good. And I _did_ miss you so.” “I’ve been thinking of you day and night,” I answered truthfully enough. “The next time you go away, I’ll tell your secretary to send me a daily telegram: ‘_Missing you dreadfully best love George._’ You’d never do it on your own account. What’s the matter, darling?” Unconsciously I must have drawn away from her embrace. The delirium was returning; and I could only think of the telegram which she had sent me the day after she asked Eric Lane to run away with her. “Some bad news, I’m afraid. I didn’t want to spoil our first moment together, but you’ll have to be told some time. I’ve not seen any papers . . .” Barbara’s hands fell from my shoulders; and she walked slowly to the fire. “I . . . _have_,” she whispered; and her head drooped as though I had struck her. “You mean . . . what . . . what _I_ mean?,” I stammered. As she turned, her eyes were blinded with tears; and her hands groped for support. “Darling, if it had been any one else, should I have had to say ‘I _need_ you’? . . . When I saw the great cruel headlines, I hoped and prayed that I might die . . . till I knew you were being sorry for me. You’re all I have; and I promised myself I’d repay you for all your patience.” She could go on no longer; and her terrible tearless sobbing shook her till I feared that her heart must break. “I _can’t_ be brave any longer.” As she once more hid her face against my chest, I could feel her whole body trembling in the last vain effort to restrain her weeping. “When . . . when . . . when did you hear?” “Twelve days ago,” I answered, as I led her to a chair. “The day he died. You . . . didn’t tell me, George. Did you think I shouldn’t see?” “Strictly speaking, I didn’t hear for certain. I knew he was dying . . .”