"John Gallilee, 14 Fairfield Gardens, London,
To--" There the pen stopped. Ovid was still in the wilds of Canada. The
one way of communicating with him was through the medium of the bankers
at Quebec, To the bankers, accordingly, the message was sent. "Please
telegraph Mr. Ovid Vere's address, the moment you know it."

When the telegram had been sent to the office, an interval of inaction
followed. Mr. Gallilee's fortitude suffered a relapse. "It's a long time
to wait," he said.

His friend agreed with him. Morally speaking, Mr. Mool's strength lay
in points of law. No point of law appeared to be involved in the present
conference: he shared Mr. Gallilee's depression of spirits. "We
are quite helpless," he remarked, "till Mr. Ovid comes back. In
the interval, I see no choice for Miss Carmina but to submit to her
guardian; unless--" He looked hard at Mr. Gallilee, before he finished
his sentence. "Unless," he resumed, "you can get over your present
feeling about your wife."

"Get over it?" Mr. Gallilee repeated.

"It seems quite impossible now, I dare say," the worthy lawyer admitted.
"A very painful impression has been produced on you. Naturally!
naturally! But the force of habit--a married life of many years--your
own kind feeling--"

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Gallilee, bewildered, impatient, almost
angry.

"A little persuasion on your part, my good friend--at the interesting
moment of reconciliation--might be followed by excellent results. Mrs.
Gallilee might not object to waive her claims, until time has softened
existing asperities. Surely, a compromise is possible, if you could only
prevail on yourself to forgive your wife."

"Forgive her? I should be only too glad to forgive her!" cried Mr.
Gallilee, bursting into violent agitation. "How am I to do it? Good God!
Mool, how am I to do it? _You_ didn't hear those infamous words. _You_
didn't see that dreadful death-struck look of the poor girl. I declare
to you I turn cold when I think of my wife! I can't go to her when I
ought to go--I send the servants into her room. My children, too--my
dear good children--it's enough to break one's heart--think of their
being brought up by a mother who could say what she said, and do--What
will they see, I ask you what will they see, if she gets Carmina back in
the house, and treats that sweet young creature as she _will_ treat her?
There were times last night, when I thought of going away for ever--Lord
knows where-