That was the beginning of the end, and when, next day towards noon, my husband came with drowsy eyes to make a kind of ungracious apology, saying he supposed the doctor had been sent for, I said: 

“James, I want you to take me home.”

“Home?  You mean . . .  Castle Raa?”

“Y-es.”

He hesitated, and I began to plead with him, earnestly and eagerly, not to deny me what I asked.

“Take me home, I beg, I pray.”

At length, seeming to think I must be homesick, he said: 

“Well, you know my views about that God-forsaken place, but the season’s nearly at an end, and I don’t mind going back on one condition ­that you raise no objection to my inviting a few friends to liven it up a bit?”

“It is your house,” I said.  “You must do as you please in it.”

“Very good; that’s settled,” he said, getting up to go.  “And I dare say it will do you no harm to be out of the way of all this church-going and confessing to priests, who are always depressing people even when they’re not making mischief.”

Hardly had my husband left me when Alma came into my sitting-room in the most affectionate and insincere of her moods.

“My poor, dear sweet child,” she said.  “If I’d had the least idea you were feeling so badly I shouldn’t have allowed Jimmy to stay another minute at that tiresome reception.  But how good it was of Mr. Conrad to come all that way to see you!  That’s what I call being a friend now!”

Then came the real object of her visit ­I saw it coming.

“I hear you’re to have a house-party at Castle Raa.  Jimmy’s in his room writing piles of invitations.  He has asked me and I should love to go, but of course I cannot do so without you wish it.  Do you?”

What could I say?  What I did say I scarcely know.  I only know that at the next minute Alma’s arms were round my neck, and she was saying: 

“You dear, sweet, unselfish little soul!  Come let me kiss you.”

It was done.  I had committed myself.  After all what right had I to raise myself on a moral pinnacle now?  And what did it matter, anyway?  I was flying from the danger of my own infidelities, not to save my husband from his.

Price had been in the room during this interview and when it was over I was ashamed to look at her.

“I can’t understand you, my lady; I really can’t,” she said.

Next day I wrote a little letter to Martin on the Scotia telling him of our change of plans, but forbidding him to trouble to come up to say good-bye, yet half hoping he would disregard my injunction.

He did.  Before I left my bedroom next morning I heard his voice in the sitting-room talking to Price, who with considerable emphasis was giving her views of Alma.

When I joined him I thought his face (which had grown to be very powerful) looked hard and strained; but his voice was as soft as ever while he said I was doing right in going home and that my native air must be good for me.

“But what’s this Price tells me ­that Madame is going with you?”

I tried to make light of that, but I broke down badly, for his eyes were on me, and I could see that he thought I was concealing the truth.

For some minutes he looked perplexed, as if trying to understand how it came to pass that sickening, as he believed I was, at the sight of my husband’s infidelities I was yet carrying the provocative cause of them away with me, and then he said again: 

“I hate that woman.  She’s like a snake.  I feel as if I want to put my foot on it.  I will, too, one of these days ­bet your life I will.”

It hurt me to hide anything from him, but how could I tell him that it was not from Alma I was flying but from himself?

When the day came for our departure I hoped I might get away without seeing Martin again.  We did get out of the hotel and into the railway station, yet no sooner was I seated in the carriage than (in the cruel war that was going on within me) I felt dreadfully down that he was not there to see me off.

But at the very last moment, just as Alma with her spaniel under her arm, and my husband with his terrier on a strap, were about to step into the train, up came Martin like a gust of mountain wind.

“Helloa!” he cried.  “I shall be seeing you soon.  Everything’s settled about the expedition.  We’re to sail the first week in September, so as to get the summer months in the Antarctic.  But before that I must go over to the island to say good-bye to the old folks, and I’ll see you at your father’s I suppose.”

Then Alma gave my husband a significant glance and said: 

“But, Mary, my love, wouldn’t it be better for Mr. Conrad to come to Castle Raa?  You won’t be able to go about very much.  Remember your delicate condition, you know.”

“Of course, why of course,” said my husband.  “That’s quite true, and if Mr. Conrad will do me the honour to accept my hospitality for a few days. . . .”

It was what I wanted above everything on earth, and yet I said: 

“No, no!  It wouldn’t be fair.  Martin will be too busy at the last moment.”

But Martin himself jumped in eagerly with: 

“Certainly!  Delighted!  Greatest pleasure in the world.”

And then, while Alma gave my husband a look of arch triumph to which he replied with a painful smile, Martin leaned over to me and whispered”

“Hush!  I want to!  I must!” though what he meant by that I never knew.

He continued to look at me with a tender expression until we said good-bye; but after the carriage door had been closed and the engine had throbbed, and the guard had whistled, I thought I had never seen his strong face so stern as when the train moved from the platform.