In the course of that night Roger Barnes’s fate was decided, while he lay, happily sleeping, beside his wife.  Daphne, as soon as she heard his regular breathing, opened the eyes she had only pretended to close, and lay staring into the shadows of the room, in which a nightlight was burning.  Presently she got up softly, put on a dressing-gown, and went to the fire, which she noiselessly replenished; drawing up a chair, she sank back into it, her arms folded.  The strengthening firelight showed her small white face, amid the masses of her dark hair.

Her whole being was seething with passionate and revengeful thought.  It was as though with violent straining and wrenching the familiar links and bulwarks of life were breaking down, and as if amid the wreck of them she found herself looking at goblin faces beyond, growing gradually used to them, ceasing to be startled by them, finding in them even a wild attraction and invitation.

So Roger had lied to her.  Instead of a casual ride, involving a meeting with a few old acquaintances, as he had represented to her, he had been engaged that day in an assignation with Mrs. Fairmile, arranged beforehand, and carefully concealed from his wife.  Miss Farmer had seen them coming out of a wood together hand in hand!  In the public road, this! ­not even so much respect for appearances as might have dictated the most elementary reticence and decency.  The case was so clear that it sickened her; she shivered with cold and nausea as she lay there by the now glowing fire which yet gave her no physical comfort.  Probably in the past their relation had gone much farther than Roger had ever confessed to his wife.  Mrs. Fairmile was a woman who would stick at nothing.  And if Daphne were not already betrayed, she could no longer protect herself.  The issue was certain.  Such women as Chloe Fairmile are not to be baulked of what they desire.  Good women cannot fight them on equal terms.  And as to any attempt to keep the affections of a husband who could behave in such a way to the wife who had given him her youth, herself, and all the resources and facilities of life, Daphne’s whole being stiffened into mingled anguish and scorn as she renounced the contest.  Knowing himself the traitor that he was, he could yet hold her, kiss her, murmur tender things to her, allow her to cry upon his breast, to stammer repentance and humbleness.  Cowardly!  False!  Treacherous!  She flung out her hands, rigid, before her in the darkness, as though for ever putting him away.

Anguish?  Yes! ­but not of such torturing quality as she could have felt a year, six months even, before this date.  She was astonished that she could bear her life, that he could sit there in the night stillness, motionless, holding her breath even, while Roger slept there in the shadowed bed.  Had this thing happened to her before their arrival at Heston, she must have fallen upon Roger in mad grief and passion, ready to kill him or herself; must at least have poured out torrents of useless words and tears.  She could not have sat dumb like this; in misery, but quite able to think things out, to envisage all the dark possibilities of the future.  And not only the future.  By a perfectly logical diversion her thoughts presently went racing to the past.  There was, so to speak, a suspension of the immediate crisis, while she listened to her own mind ­while she watched her own years go by.

It was but rarely that Daphne let her mind run on her own origins.  But on this winter night, as she sat motionless by the fire, she became conscious of a sudden detachment from her most recent self and life ­a sudden violent turning against both ­which naturally threw her back on the past, on some reflection upon what she had made of herself, by way of guide to what she might still make of herself, if she struck boldly, now, while there was yet time, for her own freedom and development.

As to her parents, she never confessed, even to herself, that she owed them anything, except, of course, the mere crude wealth that her father had left her.  Otherwise she was vaguely ashamed of them both.  And yet! ­in her most vital qualities, her love of sensational effect, her scorn of half-measures, her quick, relentless imagination, her increasing ostentation and extravagance, she was the true child of the boastful mercurial Irishman who had married her Spanish mother as part of a trade bargain, on a chance visit to Buenos Ayres.  For twenty years Daniel Floyd had leased and exploited, had ravaged and destroyed, great tracts of primaeval forest in the northern regions of his adopted state, leaving behind him a ruined earth and an impoverished community, but building up the while a colossal fortune.  He had learnt the arts of municipal “bossing” in one of the minor towns of Illinois, and had then migrated to Chicago, where for years he was the life and soul of all the bolder and more adventurous corruption of the city.  A jovial, handsome fellow! ­with an actor’s face, a bright eye, and a slippery hand.  Daphne had a vivid, and, on the whole, affectionate, remembrance of her father, of whom, however, she seldom spoke.  The thought of her mother, on the other hand, was always unwelcome.  It brought back recollections of storm and tempest; of wild laughter, and still wilder tears; of gorgeous dresses, small feet, and jewelled fingers.

No; her parents had but small place in that dramatic autobiography that Daphne was now constructing for herself.  She was not their daughter in any but the physical sense; she was the daughter of her own works and efforts.

She leant forward to the fire, her face propped in her hands, going back in thought to her father’s death, when she was fifteen; to her three years of cloying convent life, and her escape from it, as well as from the intriguing relations who would have kept her there; to the clever lawyer who had helped to put her in possession of her fortune, and the huge sums she had paid him for his services; to her search for education, her hungry determination to rise in the world, the friends she had made at college, in New York, Philadelphia, Washington.  She had been influenced by one milieu after another; she had worked hard, now at music, now at philosophy; had dabbled in girls’ clubs, and gone to Socialist meetings, and had been all through driven on by the gadfly of an ever-increasing ambition.

Ambition for what!  She looked back on this early life with a bitter contempt.  What had it all come to?  Marriage with Roger Barnes! ­a hasty passion of which she was already ashamed, for a man who was already false to her.

What had made her marry him?  She did not mince matters with herself in her reply.  She had married him, influenced by a sudden, gust of physical inclination ­by that glamour, too, under which she had seen him in Washington, a glamour of youth and novelty.  If she had seen him first in his natural environment she would have been on her guard; she would have realized what it meant to marry a man who could help her own ideals and ambitions so little.  And what, really, had their married life brought her?  Had she ever been sure of Roger? ­had she ever been able to feel proud of him, in the company of really distinguished men? ­had she not been conscious, again and again, when in London, or Paris, or Berlin, that he was her inferior, that he spoiled her social and intellectual chances?  And his tone toward women had always been a low one; no great harm in it, perhaps; but it had often wounded and disgusted her.

And then ­for climax! ­his concealment of the early love affair with Chloe Fairmile; his weakness and folly in letting her regain her hold upon him; his behaviour at the Brendon ball, the gossip which, as Agnes Farmer declared, was all over the neighbourhood, ending in the last baseness ­the assignation, the lies, the hypocrisy of the afternoon!

Enough! ­more than enough!  What did she care what the English world thought of her?  She would free and right herself in her own way, and they might hold up what hands they pleased.  A passion of wounded vanity, of disappointed self-love swept through her.  She had looked forward to the English country life; she had meant to play a great part in it.  But three months had been enough to show her the kind of thing ­the hopeless narrowness and Philistinism of these English back-waters.  What did these small squires and country clergy know of the real world, the world that mattered to her, where people had free minds and progressive ideas?  Her resentment of the milieu in which Roger expected her to live subtly swelled and strengthened her wrath against himself; it made the soil from which sprang a sudden growth of angry will ­violent and destructive.  There was in her little or none of that affinity with a traditional, a parent England, which is present in so many Americans, which emerges in them like buried land from the waters.  On the contrary, the pressure of race and blood in her was not towards, but against; not friendly, but hostile.  The nearer she came to the English life, the more certain forces in her, deeply infused, rose up and made their protest.  The Celtic and Latin strains that were mingled in her, their natural sympathies and repulsions, which had been indistinct in the girl, overlaid by the deposits of the current American world, were becoming dominant in the woman.

Well, thank goodness, modern life is not as the old!  There are ways out.

Midnight had just struck.  The night was gusty, the north-west wind made fierce attacks on the square, comfortable house.  Daphne rose slowly; she moved noiselessly across the floor; she stood with her arms behind her looking down at the sleeping Roger.  Then a thought struck her; she reached out a hand to the new number of an American Quarterly which lay, with the paper knife in it, on a table beside the bed.  She had ordered it in a mood of jealous annoyance because of a few pages of art criticism in it by Mrs. Fairmile, which impertinently professed to know more about the Vitali Signorelli than its present owner did; but she remembered also an article on “The Future for Women,” which had seemed to her a fine, progressive thing.  She turned the pages noiselessly ­her eyes now on the unconscious Roger ­now on the book.

“All forms of contract ­in business, education, religion, or law ­suffer from the weakness and blindness of the persons making them ­the marriage contract as much as any other.  The dictates of humanity and common-sense alike show that the latter and most important contract should no more be perpetual than any of the others.”

Again: ­

     “Any covenant between human beings that fails to produce or promote
     human happiness, cannot in the nature of things be of any force or
     authority; it is not only a right but a duty to abolish it.”

And a little further: ­

     “Womanhood is the great fact of woman’s life.  Wifehood and
     motherhood are but incidental relations.”

Daphne put down the book.  In the dim light, the tension of her slender figure, her frowning brow, her locked arms and hands, made of her a threatening Fate hovering darkly above the man in his deep, defenceless sleep.

She was miserable, consumed with jealous anger.  But the temptation of a new licence ­a lawless law ­was in her veins.  Have women been trampled on, insulted, enslaved? ­in America, at least, they may now stand on their feet.  No need to cringe any more to the insolence and cruelty of men.  A woman’s life may be soiled and broken; but in the great human workshop of America it can be repaired.  She remembered that in the majority of American divorces it is the woman who applies for relief.  And why not?  The average woman, when she marries, knows much less of life and the world than the average man.  She is more likely ­poor soul! ­to make mistakes.

She drew closer to the bed.  All round her glimmered the furniture and appointments of a costly room ­the silver and tortoise-shell on the dressing-table, the long mirrors lining the farther wall, the silk hangings of the bed.  Luxury, as light and soft as skill and money could make it ­the room breathed it; and in the midst stood the young creature who had designed it, the will within her hardening rapidly to an irrevocable purpose.

Yes, she had made a mistake!  But she would retrieve it.  She would free herself.  She would no longer put up with Roger, with his neglect and deceit ­his disagreeable and ungrateful mother ­his immoral friends ­and this dull, soul-deadening English life.

Roger moved and murmured.  She retreated a little, still looking at him fixedly.  Was it the child’s name?  Perhaps.  He dreamed interminably, and very often of Beatty.  But it did not move her.  Beatty, of course, was her child.  Every child belongs to the mother in a far profounder sense than to the father.  And he, too, would be free; he would naturally marry again.

Case after case of divorce ran through her mind as she stood there; the persons and circumstances all well known to her.  Other stories also, not personally within her ken; the famous scandals of the time, much discussed throughout American society.  Her wits cleared and steeled.  She began to see the course that she must follow.

It would all depend upon the lawyers; and a good deal ­she faced it ­upon money.  All sorts of technical phrases, vaguely remembered, ran through her mind.  She would have to recover her American citizenship ­she and the child.  A domicile of six months in South Dakota, or in Wyoming ­a year in Philadelphia ­she began to recall information derived of old from Madeleine Verrier, who had, of course, been forced to consider all these things, and to weigh alternatives.  Advice, of course, must be asked of her at once ­and sympathy.

Suddenly, on her brooding, there broke a wave of excitement.  Life, instead of being closed, as in a sense it is, for every married woman, was in a moment open and vague again; the doors flung wide to flaming heavens.  An intoxication of recovered youth and freedom possessed her.  The sleeping Roger represented things intolerable and outworn.  Why should a woman of her gifts, of her opportunities, be chained for life to this commonplace man, now that her passion was over? ­now that she knew him for what he was, weak, feather-brained, and vicious?  She looked at him with a kind of exaltation, spurning him from her path.

But the immediate future! ­the practical steps!  What kind of evidence would she want? ­what kind of witnesses?  Something more, no doubt, of both than she had already.  She must wait ­temporize ­do nothing rashly.  If it was for Roger’s good as well as her own that they should be free of each other ­and she was fast persuading herself of this ­she must, for both their sakes, manage the hateful operation without bungling.

What was the alternative?  She seemed to ask it of Roger, as she stood looking down upon him.  Patience? ­with a man who could never sympathize with her intellectually or artistically? ­the relations of married life with a husband who made assignations with an old love, under the eyes of the whole neighbourhood? ­the narrowing, cramping influences of English provincial society?  No! she was born for other and greater things, and she would grasp them.  “My first duty is to myself ­to my own development.  We have absolutely no right to sacrifice ourselves ­as women have been taught to do for thousands of years.”

Bewildered by the rhetoric of her own thoughts, Daphne returned to her seat by the fire, and sat there wildly dreaming, till once more recalled to practical possibilities by the passage of the hours on the clock above her.

Miss Farmer?  Everything, it seemed, depended on her.  But Daphne had no doubts of her.  Poor girl! ­with her poverty-stricken home, her drunken father lately dismissed from his post, and her evident inclination towards this clever young fellow now employed in the house ­Daphne rejoiced to think of what money could do, in this case at least; of the reward that should be waiting for the girl’s devotion when the moment came; of the gifts already made, and the gratitude already evoked.  No; she could be trusted; she had every reason to be true.

Some fitful sleep came to her at last in the morning hours.  But when Roger awoke, she was half-way through her dressing; and when he first saw her, he noticed nothing except that she was paler than usual, and confessed to a broken night.

But as the day wore on it became plain to everybody at Heston ­to Roger first and foremost ­that something was much amiss.  Daphne would not leave her sitting-room and her sofa; she complained of headache and over-fatigue; would have nothing to say to the men at work on the new decoration of the east wing of the house, who were clamouring for directions; and would admit nobody but Miss Farmer and her maid.  Roger forced his way in once, only to be vanquished by the traditional weapons of weakness, pallor, and silence.  Her face contracted and quivered as his step approached her; it was as though he trampled upon her; and he left her, awkwardly, on tiptoe, feeling himself as intrusively brutal as she clearly meant him to feel.

What on earth was the matter?  Some new grievance against him, he supposed.  After the softening, the quasi-reconciliation of the day before, his chagrin and disappointment were great.  Impossible she should know anything of his ride with Chloe!  There was not a soul in that wood; and the place was twenty miles from Heston.  Again he felt the impulse to blurt it all out to her; but was simply repelled and intimidated by this porcupine mood in which she had wrapped herself.  Better wait at least till she was a little more normal again.  He went off disconsolately to a day’s shooting.

Meanwhile, his own particular worry was sharp enough.  Chloe had taken advantage of their casual tete-a-tete, as she had done before on several occasions, to claim something of the old relation, instead of accepting the new, like a decent woman; and in the face of the temptation offered him he had shown a weakness of which not only his conscience but his pride was ashamed.  He realized perfectly that she had been trying during the whole autumn to recover her former hold on him, and he also saw clearly and bitterly that he was not strong enough to resist her, should he continue to be thrown with her; and not clever enough to baffle her, if her will were really set on recapturing him.  He was afraid of her, and afraid of himself.

What, then, must he do?  As he tramped about the wet fields and plantations with a keeper and a few beaters after some scattered pheasants, he was really, poor fellow! arguing out the riddle of his life.  What would Herbert French advise him to do? ­supposing he could put the question plainly to him, which of course was not possible.  He meant honestly and sincerely to keep straight; to do his duty by Daphne and the child.  But he was no plaster saint, and he could not afford to give Chloe Fairmile too many opportunities.  To break at once, to carry off Daphne and leave Heston, at least for a time ­that was the obviously prudent and reasonable course.  But in her present mood it was of no use for him to propose it, tired as she seemed to be of Heston, and disappointed in the neighbours:  any plan brought forward by him was doomed beforehand.  Well then, let him go himself; he had been so unhappy during the preceding weeks it would be a jolly relief to turn his back on Heston for a time.

But as soon as he had taken his departure, Chloe perhaps would take hers; and if so, Daphne’s jealousy would be worse than ever.  Whatever deserts he might place between himself and Mrs. Fairmile, Daphne would imagine them together.

Meanwhile, there was that Lilliput bond, that small, chafing entanglement, which Chloe had flung round him in her persistence about the letters.  There was, no doubt, a horrid scandal brewing about Mrs. Weightman, Chloe’s old friend ­a friend of his own, too, in former days.  Through Chloe’s unpardonable indiscretions he knew a great deal more about this lady’s affairs than he had ever wished to know.  And he well remembered the letter in question:  a letter on which the political life or death of one of England’s most famous men might easily turn, supposing it got out.  But the letter was safe enough; not the least likely to come into dangerous hands, in spite of Chloe’s absurd hypotheses.  It was somewhere, no doubt, among the boxes in the locked room; and who could possibly get hold of it?  At the same time he realized that as long as he had not found and returned it she would still have a certain claim upon him, a certain right to harass him with inquiries and confidential interviews, which, as a man of honour, he could not altogether deny.

A pheasant got up across a ploughed field where in the mild season the young corn was already green.  Roger shot, and missed; the bird floated gaily down the wind, and the head keeper, in disgust, muttered bad language to the underling beside him.

But after that Barnes was twice as cheerful as before.  He whistled as he walked; his shooting recovered; and by the time the dark fell, keepers and beaters were once more his friends.

The fact was that just as he missed the pheasant he had taken his resolution, and seen his way.  He would have another determined hunt for that letter; he would also find and destroy his own letters to Chloe ­those she had returned to him ­which must certainly never fall into Daphne’s hands; and then he would go away to London or the North, to some place whence he could write both to Chloe Fairmile and to his wife.  Women like Daphne were too quick; they could get out a dozen words to your one; but give a man time, and he could express himself.  And, therewith, a great tenderness and compunction in this man’s heart, and a steady determination to put things right.  For was not Daphne Beatty’s mother? and was he not in truth very fond of her, if only she would let him be?

Now then for the hunt.  As he had never destroyed the letters, they must exist; but, in the name of mischief, where?  He seemed to remember thrusting his own letters to Chloe into a desk of his schoolboy days which used to stand in his London sitting-room.  Very likely some of hers might be there too.  But the thought of his own had by now become a much greater anxiety to him than the wish to placate Chloe.  For he was most uncomfortably aware that his correspondence with Chloe during their short engagement had been of a very different degree of fervour from that shown in the letters to Daphne under similar circumstances.  As for the indelicacy and folly of leaving such documents to chance, he cursed it sorely.

How to look?  He pondered it.  He did not even know which attic it was that had been reserved at the time of the letting of Heston, and now held some of the old London furniture and papers.  Well, he must manage it, “burgle” his own house, if necessary.  What an absurd situation!  Should he consult his mother?  No; better not.

That evening General Hobson was expected for a couple of nights.  On going up to dress for dinner, Roger discovered that he had been banished to a room on the farther side of the house, where his servant was now putting out his clothes.  He turned very white, and went straight to his wife.

Daphne was on the sofa as before, and received him in silence.

“What’s the meaning of this, Daphne?” The tone was quiet, but the breathing quick.

She looked at him ­bracing herself.

“I must be alone!  I had no sleep last night.”

“You had neuralgia?”

“I don’t know ­I had no sleep.  I must be alone.”

His eyes and hers met.

“For to-night, then,” he said briefly.  “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Daphne and I suppose it’s no use to ask you.  I thought, yesterday ­but ­however, there’s no time to talk now.  Are you coming down to dinner?”

“Not to dinner.  I will come down for an hour afterwards.”

He went away, and before he had reached his own room, and while the heat of his sudden passion still possessed him, it occurred to him that Daphne’s behaviour might after all prove a godsend.  That night he would make his search, with no risk of disturbing his wife.

The dinner in the newly decorated dining-room went heavily.  Lady Barnes had grown of late more and more anxious and depressed.  She had long ceased to assert herself in Daphne’s presence, and one saw her as the British matron in adversity, buffeted by forces she did not understand; or as some minor despot snuffed out by a stronger.

The General, who had only arrived just in time to dress, inquired in astonishment for Daphne, and was told by Roger that his wife was not well, but would come down for a little while after dinner.  In presence of the new splendours of Heston, the General had ­in Roger’s company ­very little to say.  He made the vague remark that the dining-room was “very fine,” but he should not have known it again.  Where was the portrait of Edward, and the full-length of Edward’s father by Sir Francis Grant?  Lady Barnes drew herself up, and said nothing.  Roger hastily replied that he believed they were now in the passage leading to the billiard-room.

“What! that dark corner!” cried the General, looking with both distaste and hostility at the famous Signorelli ­a full-length nude St. Sebastian, bound and pierced ­which had replaced them on the dining-room wall.  Who on earth ever saw such a picture in a dining-room?  Roger must be a fool to allow it!

Afterwards the General and Lady Barnes wandered through the transformed house, in general agreement as to the ugliness and extravagance of almost everything that had been done, an agreement that was as balm to the harassed spirits of the lady.

“What have they spent?” asked the General, under his breath, as they returned to the drawing-room ­“thousands and thousands, I should think!  And there was no need for them to spend a penny.  It is a sinful waste, and no one should waste money in these days ­there are too many unemployed!” He drew up his spare person, with a terrier-like shake of the head and shoulders, as of one repudiating Mammon and all its works.

“Daphne has simply no idea of the value of money!” Lady Barnes complained, also under her breath.  They were passing along one of the side corridors of the house, and there was no one in sight.  But Roger’s mother was evidently uneasy, as though Daphne might at any moment spring from the floor, or emerge from the walls.  The General was really sorry for her.

“It’s like all the rest of them ­Americans, I mean,” he declared; “they haven’t our sense of responsibility.  I saw plenty of that in the States.”

Lady Barnes acquiesced.  She was always soothed by the General’s unfaltering views of British superiority.

They found Daphne in the drawing-room ­a ghostly Daphne, in white, and covered with diamonds.  She made a little perfunctory conversation with them, avoided all mention of the house, and presently, complaining again of headache, went back to her room after barely an hour downstairs.

The General whistled to himself, as he also retired to bed, after another and more private conversation with Lady Barnes, and half an hour’s billiards with a very absent-minded host.  By Jove, Laura wanted a change!  He rejoiced that he was to escort her on the morrow to the London house of some cheerful and hospitable relations.  Dollars, it seemed, were not everything, and he wished to heaven that Roger had been content to marry some plain English girl, with, say, a couple of thousand a year.  Even the frugal General did not see how it could have been done on less.  Roger no doubt had been a lazy, self-indulgent beggar.  Yet he seemed a good deal steadier, and more sensible than he used to be; in spite of his wife, and the pouring out of dollars.  And there was no doubt that he had grown perceptibly older.  The General felt a vague pang of regret, so rare and so compelling had been the quality of Roger’s early youth, measured at least by physical standards.

The house sank into sleep and silence.  Roger, before saying good-night to his mother, had let fall a casual question as to the whereabouts of the room which still contained the debris of the London house.  He must, he said, look up two or three things, some share certificates of his father’s, for instance, that he had been in want of for some time.  Lady Barnes directed him.  At the end of the nursery wing, to the right.  But in the morning one of the housemaids would show him.  Had she the key?  She produced it, thought no more of it, and went to bed.

He waited in his room till after midnight, then took off his shoes, his pride smarting, and emerged.  There was one electric light burning in the hall below.  This gave enough glimmer on the broad open landing for him to grope his way by, and he went noiselessly toward the staircase leading up to Beatty’s rooms.  Once, just as he reached it, he thought he caught the faint noise of low talking somewhere in the house, an indeterminate sound not to be located.  But when he paused to listen, it had ceased and he supposed it to be only a windy murmur of the night.

He gained the nursery wing.  So far, of course, the way was perfectly familiar.  He rarely passed an evening without going to kiss Beatty in her cot.  Outside the door of the night-nursery he waited a moment to listen.  Was she snoozling among her blankets? ­the darling!  She still sucked her thumb, sometimes, poor baby, to send her to sleep, and it was another reason for discontent with Miss Farmer that she would make a misdemeanour of it.  Really, that woman got on his nerves!

Beyond the nursery he had no knowledge whatever of his own house.  The attics at Heston were large and rambling.  He believed the servants were all in the other wing, but was not sure; he could only hope that he might not stumble on some handmaiden’s room by mistake!

A door to the right, at the end of the passage.  He tried the key.  Thank goodness!  It turned without too much noise, and he found himself on the threshold of a big lumber-room, his candle throwing lines of dusty light across it.  He closed the door, set down the light, and looked round him in despair.  The room was crowded with furniture, trunks, and boxes, in considerable confusion.  It looked as though the men employed to move them had piled them there as they pleased; and Roger shrewdly suspected that his mother, from whom, in spite of her square and business-like appearance, his own indolence was inherited, had shrunk till now from the task of disturbing them.

He began to rummage a little.  Papers belonging to his father ­an endless series of them; some in tin boxes marked with the names of various companies, mining and other; some in leather cases, reminiscent of politics, and labelled “Parliamentary” or “Local Government Board.”  Trunks containing Court suits, yeomanry uniforms, and the like; a medley of old account books, photographs, worthless volumes, and broken ornaments:  all the refuse that our too complex life piles about us was represented in the chaos of the room.  Roger pulled and pushed as cautiously as he could, but making, inevitably, some noise in the process.  At last!  He caught sight of some belongings of his own and was soon joyfully detaching the old Eton desk, of which he was in search, from a pile of miscellaneous rubbish.  In doing so, to his dismay, he upset a couple of old cardboard boxes filled with letters, and they fell with some clatter.  He looked round instinctively at the door; but it was shut, and the house was well built, the walls and ceilings reasonably sound-proof.  The desk was only latched ­beastly carelessness, of course! ­and inside it were three thick piles of letters, and a few loose ones below.  His own letters to Chloe; and ­by George! ­the lost one! ­among the others.  He opened it eagerly, ran it through.  Yes, the very thing!  What luck!  He laid it carefully aside a moment on a trunk near by, and sat with the other letters on his lap.

His fingers played with them.  He almost determined to take them down unopened, and burn them, as they were, in his own room; but in the end he could not resist the temptation to look at them once more.  He pulled off an india-rubber band from the latest packet, and was soon deep in them, at first half ashamed, half contemptuous.  Calf love, of course!  And he had been a precious fool to write such things.  Then, presently, the headlong passion of them began to affect him, to set his pulses swinging.  He fell to wondering at his own bygone facility, his own powers of expression.  How did he ever write such a style!  He, who could hardly get through a note now without blots and labour.  Self-pity grew upon him, and self-admiration.  By heaven!  How could a woman treat a man ­a man who could write to her like this ­as Chloe had treated him!

The old smart revived; or rather, the old indelible impressions of it left on nerve and brain.

The letters lay on his knee.  He sat brooding:  his hands upon the packets, his head bowed.  One might have thought him a man overcome and dissolved by the enervating memories of passion; but in truth, he was gradually and steadily reacting against them; resuming, and this time finally, as far as Chloe Fairmile was concerned, a man’s mastery of himself.  He thought of her unkindness and cruelty ­of the misery he had suffered ­and now of the reckless caprice with which, during the preceding weeks, she had tried to entangle him afresh, with no respect for his married life, for his own or Daphne’s peace of mind.

He judged her, and therewith, himself.  Looking back upon the four years since Chloe Fairmile had thrown him over, it seemed to him that, in some ways, he had made a good job of his life, and, in others, a bad one.  As to the money, that was neither here nor there.  It had been amusing to have so much of it; though of late Daphne’s constant reminders that the fortune was hers and not his, had been like grit in the mouth.  But he did not find that boundless wealth had made as much difference to him as he had expected.  On the other hand, he had been much happier with Daphne than he had thought he should be, up to the time of their coming to Heston.  She wasn’t easy to live with, and she had been often, before now, ridiculously jealous; but you could not, apparently, live with a woman without getting very fond of her ­he couldn’t ­especially if she had given you a child; and if Daphne had turned against him now, for a bit ­well, he could not swear to himself that he had been free from blame; and it perhaps served him right for having gone out deliberately to the States to marry money ­with a wife thrown in ­in that shabby sort of way.

But, now, to straighten out this coil; to shake himself finally free of Chloe, and make Daphne happy again!  He vowed to himself that he could and would make her happy ­just as she had been in their early days together.  The memory of her lying white and exhausted after child-birth, with the little dark head beside her, came across him, and melted him; he thought of her with longing and tenderness.

With a deep breath he raised himself on his seat; in the old Greek phrase, “the gods breathed courage into his soul”; and as he stretched out an indifferent hand toward Chloe’s letters on the trunk, Roger Barnes had perhaps reached the highest point of his moral history; he had become conscious of himself as a moral being choosing good or evil; and he had chosen good.  It was not so much that his conscience accused him greatly with regard to Chloe.  For that his normal standards were not fine enough.  It was rather a kind of “serious call,” something akin to conversion, or that might have been conversion, which befell him in this dusty room, amid the night-silence.

As he took up Chloe’s letters he did not notice that the door had quietly opened behind him, and that a figure stood on the threshold.

A voice struck into the stillness.

“Roger!”

He turned with a movement that scattered all his own letters on the floor.  Daphne stood before him ­but with the eyes of a mad woman.  Her hand shook on the handle of the door.

“What are you doing here?” She flung out the question like a blow.

“Hallo, Daphne! ­is that you?” He tried to laugh.  “I’m only looking up some old papers; no joke, in all this rubbish.”  He pointed to it.

“What old papers?”

“Well, you needn’t catechize me!” he said, nettled by her tone, “or not in that way, at any rate.  I couldn’t sleep, and I came up here to look for something I wanted.  Why did you shut your door on me?”

He looked at her intently, his lips twitching a little.  Daphne came nearer.

“It must be something you want very badly ­something you don’t want other people to see ­something you’re ashamed of! ­or you wouldn’t be searching for it at this time of night.”  She raised her eyes, still with the same strange yet flaming quiet, from the littered floor to his face.  Then suddenly glancing again at the scattered papers ­“That’s your hand-writing! ­they’re your letters! letters to Mrs. Fairmile!”

“Well, and what do you make of that?” cried Roger, half wroth, half inclined to laugh.  “If you want to know, they are the letters I wrote to Chloe Fairmile; and I, like a careless beast, never destroyed them, and they were stuffed away here.  I have long meant to get at them and burn them, and as you turned me out to-night ­”

“What is that letter in your hand?” exclaimed Daphne, interrupting him.

“Oh, that has nothing to do with you ­or me ­” he said, hastily making a movement to put it in his coat pocket.  But in a second, Daphne, with a cry, had thrown herself upon him, to his intense amazement, wrestling with him, in a wild excitement.  And as she did so, a thin woman, with frightened eyes, in a nurse’s dress, came quickly into the room, as though Daphne’s cry had signalled to her.  She was behind Roger, and he was not aware of her approach.

“Daphne, don’t be such a little fool!” he said indignantly, holding her off with one hand, determined not to give her the letter.

Then, all in a moment ­without, as it seemed to him, any but the mildest defensive action on his part ­Daphne stumbled and fell.

“Daphne! ­I say! ­”

He was stooping over her in great distress to lift her up, when he felt himself vehemently put aside by a woman’s hand.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir!  Let me go to her.”

He turned in bewilderment.  “Miss Farmer!  What on earth are you doing here?”

But in his astonishment he had given way to her, and he fell back pale and frowning, while, without replying, she lifted Daphne ­who had a cut on her forehead and was half fainting ­from the ground.

“Don’t come near her, sir!” said the nurse, again warding him off.  “You have done quite enough.  Let me attend to her.”

“You imagine that was my doing?” said Roger grimly.  “Let me assure you it was nothing of the kind.  And pray, were you listening at the door?”

Miss Farmer vouchsafed no reply.  She was half leading, half supporting Daphne, who leant against her.  As they neared the door, Roger, who had been standing dumb again, started forward.

“Let me take her,” he said sternly.  “Daphne! ­send this woman away.”

But Daphne only shuddered, and putting out a shaking hand, she waved him from her.

“You see in what a state she is!” cried Miss Farmer, with a withering look.  “If you must speak to her, put it off, sir, at least till to-morrow.”

Roger drew back.  A strange sense of inexplicable disaster rushed upon him.  He sombrely watched them pass through the door and disappear.

Daphne reached her own room.  As the door closed upon them she turned to her companion, holding out the handkerchief stained with blood she had been pressing to her temple.

“You saw it all?” she said imperiously ­“the whole thing?”

“All,” said Miss Farmer.  “It’s a mercy you’re not more hurt.”

Daphne gave a hysterical laugh.

“It’ll just do ­I think it’ll do!  But you’ll have to make a good deal out of it.”

And sinking down by the fire, she burst into a passion of wild tears.

The nurse brought her sal volatile, and washed the small cut above her eyebrow.

“It was lucky we heard him,” she said triumphantly.  “I guessed at once he must be looking for something ­I knew that room was full of papers.”

A knock at the door startled them.

“Never mind.”  The nurse hurried across the room.  “It’s locked.”

“How is my wife?” said Roger’s strong, and as it seemed, threatening voice outside.

“She’ll be all right, sir, I hope, if you’ll leave her to rest.  But I won’t answer for the consequences if she’s disturbed any more.”

There was a pause, as though of hesitation.  Then Roger’s step receded.

Daphne pushed her hair back from her face, and sat staring into the fire.  Everything was decided now.  Yet she had rushed upstairs on Miss Farmer’s information with no definite purpose.  She only knew that ­once again ­Roger was hiding something from her ­doing something secret and disgraceful ­and she suddenly resolved to surprise and confront him.  With a mind still vaguely running on the legal aspects of what she meant to do, she had bade the nurse follow her.  The rest had been half spontaneous, half acting.  It had struck her imagination midway how the incident could be turned ­and used.

She was triumphant; but from sheer excitement she wept and sobbed through the greater part of the night.