The first morning in London he missed her. His bachelor rooms seemed cold and informal with vague discomfort. His breakfast, served by the porter’s wife, who attended to his domestic needs, was singularly unappetising. The morning paper supported in front of him by the tea-pot proved an inadequate substitute for Minna’s pretty face and sweet, lazy talk. He convinced himself that he loved her truly. But when he reached his chambers he found a brief awaiting him that demanded all his faculties. In half an hour he had forgotten her. When he went out for lunch, it was with a glow of satisfaction at work accomplished. At the restaurant, he met brother barristers, fellow-frequenters of the place, and found unprecedented zest in the keen, masculine talk. In the afternoon at his club, he dropped into a vacant armchair by the side of the editor of a great review, who cast over all who approached him the charm of his culture and the spell of his genius. By the afternoon post came two letters, one from Minna, who had addressed him at the club according to arrangement, the other from Irene. He opened his wife’s first, read it with genuine tenderness. Everything, she wrote, was plunged into utter darkness. She was yearning for to-morrow when she would see her dear love again. A passionate letter with an untrained girl’s lack of reserve. He went to a writing-table, finished a half-written letter of his own and dropped it into the club letter-box. Then he read Irene’s communication. It was a request that he would attend a committee meeting of her Institution at half-past eight. Gerard was engaged and could not come. She reproached him for his absence, was anxious for a talk with him, had addressed him at the club on the chance of catching him. Long custom had caused him to regard such requests as commands. To please her he would have broken many engagements. At half-past eight he found himself in the committee room, and seated at the table by the side of Irene who had reserved a place for him. The business concluded, they went back to Sunnington together by the District Railway. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time?” she said, as soon as they were settled comfortably in the train. “Oh, lotus-eating, generally,” he replied. “I thought so.” “Why?” “It is said to impair the memory. You seem to have forgotten all about us.” “I accept the rebuke,” he answered, meekly. “Now tell me all that I have been oblivious of.” She gave him her little budget of news, aware that he would give no further information as to his own doings. She spoke of the waif she had rescued. “You have no idea how strong and bonny she looks. I have been canvassing for votes for the St. Katherine schools. The election is next week. I think she’ll get in.” “But I had an idea you were going to keep her,” said Hugh. “So had I. I shall miss her dreadfully. It would be so nice to adopt a child. But Gerard thought this would be better for her--and he’s so wise, you know.”