lity. She poured out the tale.

It appeared that for many many months Caroline had not been the wife
she should have been. No; there had been a young man, a Mr. Bennett
from London. The whole town had had its suspicions, had raised its
pointing finger, had peeped and peered and whimpered. The only person
who had noticed nothing was Mr. Purdie himself. He must, of course,
have seen that his house was filled with noisy young men and noisier
young women; he must have realised that his bills were high, that
champagne was drunk and cards were played, and that his wife's attire
was fantastically gorgeous. At any rate, if he noticed these things he
said nothing. He was a dull, silent, slow-thinking man, people said.
Then one day he went up to London or rather, in the manner of the best
modern problem play, he pretended to go, returned abruptly, and
discovered Caroline in the arms of Mr. Bennett.

He flung Mr. Bennett out of the bedroom window, breaking his leg and
his nose, and that was why every one knew the story. What he said to
Caroline was uncertain. He did not, however, pack her off, as Miss
Purves said he should have done, but rather kept her in the big ugly
house, just as he had done before, only now without the young men, the
young women, the champagne and the flowers.

"I must go and see her," said Maggie when she heard this story.

Grace turned the strange pale yellow that was her colour when she was
disturbed.

"Maggie," she said, "I warn you that if you go to see this abandoned
woman you will be insulting Paul and myself before the whole town."

"She is my friend," said Maggie.

"She is a wicked woman," said Grace, breathing very heavily, "and
you're a wicked woman if you go to see her. You have already made Paul
miserable."

"That is untrue," Maggie said fiercely. "It is I that have been
miserable. Not that it hasn't been my own fault. I should never have
married Paul."

"No, you should not," said Grace, breathing as though she had been
running very hard. "And for that I was partly to blame. But fancy what
you've done since you've been with us! Just fancy! It's terrible ...
never a greater mistake ... never, never."

Maggie tossed her head. "Well, if it was a mistake," she said, "the end
of pretending has come at last. I've been trying for nearly two years
now to go your way and Paul's. I can't do it. I can't alter myself.
I've tried, and I can't. It's no use. Grace, we'd never get on. I see
it's bee