darling
husband, what can I do to win your forgiveness? Do consider how lonely I
am in this house. Beatrice has been horrid to me. If I said all I think
about _her_, she wouldn't like to hear it; but I am learning to control
my tongue. She lives alone in a flat, and has men to spend every evening
with her; it's disgraceful! And there's Fanny, who I am sure is leading
an immoral life abroad. Of course I shall never speak to her again. You
were quite right when you said my sisters were worthless.'--Peachey had
never permitted himself any such remark.--'I will have no one but you,
my dear, good, sweet husband.'

So on, over several pages. Reading it, the husband stood aghast at this
new revelation of female possibilities; at the end, he hurriedly threw
it into the fire, fearing, and with good reason, that weakness in his
own character to which the woman addressed herself.

Every day for a week there arrived a replica of this epistle, and at
length he answered. It was the fatal concession. Though he wrote with
almost savage severity, Ada replied in terms of exuberant gratitude.
Oh, how delighted she was to see his dear handwriting once more! How it
reminded her of happy days, when they loved each other so tenderly! Then
came two strophes of a sentimental drawing-room song, and lastly, an
impassioned appeal to be allowed to see her husband, were it only for
five minutes.

Another week of such besieging, and the poor fellow's foolish heart gave
way. He would see the wretched woman, and tell her that, though never
could he consent to live with her again, he had no malicious feeling,
and was willing to be her friend at a distance. So, at six o'clock one
evening, behold him tremulously approaching the house in De Crespigny
Park,--tremulously, because he dreaded the assault upon his emotions to
which he so recklessly exposed himself. He was admitted by a very young
servant, in a very clean cap and apron. Silence possessed the
dwelling; he did not venture to tread with natural step. He entered
the drawing-room, and there, from amid a heap of household linen which
required the needle, rose the penitent wife. Ostentatiously she drew
from her finger a thimble, then advanced with head bent.

'How kind of you, Arthur! How--how very--'

And she was dissolved in tears--so genuine, that they marked pale
rillets across the bloom of her cheeks.

About a month after that the furniture was removed from De Crespigny
Park to a much small