Her mind was blissfully unheedful of the route. Crowded thoroughfares, dreary squares, long, gaunt streets--it was all the same to her. She lay back in a corner of the cab, felt the letter stiff against her bosom, beneath her sealskin jacket, and surrendered herself to her sensations. They were those of an angel of mercy committing a rapturous indiscretion. At last the cab stopped at the given number of the quiet street where Goddard lived. Bidding the cabman wait, she ran up the steps and rang the bell. For a moment she hesitated with the letter in her hand, fingering it nervously. Then, with a little throb, half-joy, half-fear, she thrust it into the letter-box. A servant came to the door and stared at the visitor. Lady Phayre’s heart beat so fast that she could scarcely speak. “Mr. Goddard’s upstairs, ma’am. I’ll fetch him,” said the servant; and she ran up the stairs, leaving Lady Phayre standing in the hall. She was a slatternly slip of a girl, in a print dress. The thought of men’s incapacity in the domestic economies brought a superior smile to Lady Phayre’s lips. She forgave him, on account of his sex, for being left to wait in a draughty passage. But the dining-room door was ajar, showing a light within. There was no reason against her entering, her hand was upon it, when it was suddenly opened wide, and, in the full light appeared the figure of a woman with sodden features, dull eyes, and loose, untidy hair, dressed in a dirty flannel dressing-gown. For a second they stood watching one another. Then the woman made a step, and reeled sideways against the wall. She was drunk. “Who the -------- are you?” she cried in a thick voice. Lady Phayre was transfixed with horror. She shrank back, just as Goddard rushed down the stairs. He had heard his wife’s speech. It was an awful moment. At the sight of him the woman cowered. “Stay in that room!” he thundered at her; then he slammed the door, and still gripping the knob, stood with livid features and heavily coming breath, staring into Lady Phayre’s white face. “You here? What madness brought you?” he said hoarsely. The sound of his voice addressing her was an awakening shock to Lady Phayre. “Ah!” she exclaimed, the disgust and revolt of her soul finding its only expression in an inarticulate cry. And then she instinctively fled towards the street door. But Goddard overtook her in two or three great strides. She shrank into the corner, put up her hand as if he were about to touch her. “Let me go. Don’t come near me. Don’t speak to me. It is horrible.” “Yes, it’s horrible,” he replied fiercely. “But it is my curse, and not my fault, that I have a wife like that.” “Your wife, your wife?” she said in a queer, faint voice. “That--that woman your wife?” “You did not think it was my mistress?” he exclaimed with bitter coarseness. “To come to _her_ after leaving you!” She recovered her composure with a strong effort. “I will trouble you to open that door for me.”