"Oh; there's the divorce court," she remarked with light-hearted flippancy. "I wasn't referring to social laws," he answered gravely. "The bond that holds you is the strength of our love. It is the one invincible power in the world. Whatever happened, you would never cease to love me, Pamela." He made the statement with a look which seemed to question her. Pamela responded to the look. "No," she answered, her sweet face grown suddenly very earnest. "I could never cease to love you. That's the surest thing in heaven or earth to me." He set her aside and stood up. Then he lifted her to her feet and put his arm about her and drew her towards the open window. "Come into the garden," he said. "The air indoors stifles me. I don't want to talk. I want to be in the open and feel you near." She pressed his hand sympathetically. "There's certainly a little worry of some sort," she said. "Yes, there's a little worry," he answered in an evasive tone which discouraged inquiries. "But it needn't concern you." Pamela was not naturally curious. Her husband seldom discussed his affairs with her. She did not resent this lack of confidence, but attributed it to the disparity of their ages: Pamela was twenty-six, and Herbert Arnott was forty, and rather staid and settled. He had been a widower when he married Pamela; but he never spoke of his first wife. He had been married when he was quite young and had made a hash of his early life. She knew that because he had told her when they became engaged: he did not refer to the subject again; and Pamela never knew what the first wife was like nor who her people were. Arnott was reserved about his past, and, so far as his wife knew, he was without ties or relations. He had put the old life behind him entirely when he quitted his native land; and very early Pamela learnt that it was not wise to try to get him to talk about himself and the days before she knew him. He was a man whose past was a closed book to the world, nor would he allow his wife to turn over the pages.