Perhaps he did not know her to be married. This thought took possession of me. When their quarrel ended it became manifest that Ella herself was endeavouring to fascinate and hold him, just as she had charmed me, by the softness of her speech, her exquisite grace, and her wonderful beauty. She spoke quietly, with her dainty finger-tips laid lightly upon his arm, while he listened, gazing earnestly into her face, enchanted. To-night, I told myself, the bonds uniting me to Ella should be for ever severed. I remembered the many occasions when she had been absent, visiting imaginary friends; I recollected the evening she brought home the violets and preserved them carefully in water until they smelt so faint that she was compelled to throw them away; I had not forgotten the fact that blades of grass did not grow in the squalid, overcrowded streets of modern Camberwell. I glanced around at the grass on every side. Perhaps she frequented that place, and took clandestine walks daily with her lover beneath those leafless trees. The thought provoked my bitter hatred, and I know not how I refrained from facing the pair. I managed, however, to hold myself back, watching them exchange a tender farewell at the gate that led into Kensington High Street, next the Palace Hotel, and while the man raised his hat politely and, turning, walked away in the direction of Knightsbridge, Ella, her face radiant and happy, bowed and set out homeward in the opposite direction. Beneath the lamp in the gateway I had, in those brief seconds, obtained a glimpse of his face. It was that of a young man of about two-and-twenty, with strongly marked features, fair-haired, and of quite a different type than I had conjectured. The features were rather refined, by no means those of a cad, but rather those of a well-bred young idler, who affected the dress and manners of that class of youths who frequent the Cafe Monico on Sunday evenings, the slaves of the counter. Once he glanced back to Ella, but she did not turn; then he went on and was lost in the darkness, while I followed my wife's neat figure through the bustling throng of foot-passengers. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. TO ERR IS HUMAN. Instead of keeping behind her straight home, I turned from the main road, and with my mind full of gloomy thoughts, wandered about the dark, quiet thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of Campden Hill until, having walked for over an hour undecided how to act, I awoke to a consciousness that I was before my own house. When I entered I opened a telegram lying on the hall table, and found it was from Lord Warnham, stating that he was leaving the Premier's suddenly, and asking me to call at Berkeley Square at six. It was then a quarter to six, and I saw that even by cab I must be ten minutes late for the appointment. "Has my wife returned, Juckes?" I asked my faithful man, who stood ready to relieve me of hat and coat. "Yes, sir. She returned an hour ago, and is now in the drawing-room."