self. 'What a lot of 'ones'!... Fine grammar for a governess.'

'... Wishing you every happiness (I _shall_ miss the children!).

Yours sincerely,

Margaret Townsend

'_P.S._--I shall never forget how happy I was with you and Mrs Ottley.'

Bruce's expression as he read the last line was rather funny.

'She's a silly little fool, and I shan't answer,' he reflected.

Re-reading the letter, he found it more unsatisfactory still, and
destroyed it.

The thought of Miss Townsend bored him unutterably; and indeed he was
incapable of caring for any woman (however feebly) for more than two or
three weeks. He was particularly fickle, vague, and scrappy in his
emotions. Edith was the only woman for whom even a little affection
could last, and he would have long tired of her but for her exceptional
character and the extraordinary trouble and tact she used with him. He
didn't appreciate her fine shades, he was not in love with her, didn't
value her as another man might have done. But he was always coming back
to a certain steady, renewed feeling of tenderness for her.

With the curious blindness common to all married people (and indeed to
any people who live together), clever Edith had been entirely taken in,
in a certain sense; she had always felt (until the 'Townsend case')
half disdainfully but satisfactorily certain of Bruce's fidelity. She
knew that he had little sham flirtations, but she had never imagined
his going anywhere near an intrigue. She saw now that in that she had
been duped, and that if he didn't do more it was not from loyalty to
her. Still, she now felt convinced that it wouldn't occur again. She
had treated him well; she had spared him in the matter. He was a little
grateful, and she believed he would be straight now, though her opinion
of him had rather gone down. Edith always felt that she must go to the
very extreme of loyalty to anyone who was faithful to her; she valued
fidelity so deeply, and now this feeling was naturally relaxed a
little. She hadn't the slightest desire for revenge, but she felt she
had a slightly freer hand. She didn't see why she should, for instance,
deprive herself of the pleasure of seeing Aylmer; she had not told him
anything about it.

That day at the club, Bruce in his depression had a chat with
Goldthorpe, his golfing companion and sometime confidant. Over a
cigarette and other refreshments, Bruce murmured how he had put an end
to the little affair for the sake of his