k her that in spite
of a concentration such as she had never in her life bestowed on any
other subject, her knowledge of him of the Chiltern she had married--was
still wofully incomplete, and that in proportion to the lack of
perfection of that knowledge her danger was great. Perhaps the Chiltern
she had married was as yet in a formative state. Be this as it may,
what she saw depicted on his face to-night corresponded to no former
experience.

They went back to the library. Coffee was brought and carried off, and
Honora was standing before the fire. Suddenly he rose from his chair,
crossed the room, and before she could draw away seized and crushed her
in his arms without a word. She lay there, inert, bewildered as in the
grip of an unknown force, until presently she was aware of the beating
of his heart, and a glimmering of what he felt came to her. Nor was it
an understandable thing, except to the woman who loved him. And yet and
yet she feared it even in that instant of glory.

When at last she dared to look up, he kissed away the tears from her
cheeks.

"I love you," he said. "You must never doubt it--do you understand?"

"Yes, Hugh."

"You must never doubt it," he repeated roughly.

His contrition was a strange thing--if it were contrition. And
love--woman's love--is sometimes the counsellor of wisdom. Her sole
reproach was to return his kiss.

Presently she chose a book, and he read to her.

CHAPTER XV. THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY

One morning, as he gathered up his mail, Chiltern left lying on the
breakfast table a printed circular, an appeal from the trustees of
the Grenoble Hospital. As Honora read it she remembered that this
institution had been the favourite charity of his mother; and that Mrs.
Chiltern, at her death, had bequeathed an endowment which at the time
had been ample. But Grenoble having grown since then, the deficit for
this year was something under two thousand dollars, and in a lower
corner was a request that contributions be sent to Mrs. Israel Simpson.

With the circular in her hand, Honora went thoughtfully up the stairs
to her sitting-room. The month was February, the day overcast and muggy,
and she stood for a while apparently watching the holes made in the snow
by the steady drip from the cap of the garden wall. What she really saw
was the face of Mrs. Israel Simpson, a face that had haunted her these
many months. For Mrs. Simpson had gradually grown, in Honora's mind, to
typ