ay to you."

His tone excited her curiosity. She looked at him more closely, and
realized that he had indeed come upon some mission.

"Well," she said, "what has happened? Is it----"

She broke off in her sentence. Rochester stood quite still, as though
passionately anxious to understand the meaning of that interrupted
thought.

"It is about Mary," he said.

"Yes?" Pauline whispered. "Go on. Go on, please."

"It is something quite unexpected," Rochester said slowly--"something
which I can assure you that her conduct has never at any time in any
way suggested."

"She wants to leave you?" Pauline asked, breathlessly.

"On the contrary," Rochester said, "she wants what she has never asked
for or expected--something, in fact, which was not in our marriage
bond. She has been going to this man Father Cresswell's meetings. She
is talking about our duty, about making the best of one another."

Pauline was amazed. Certainly no thought of this kind had ever entered
into her head.

"Do you mean," she said, "that Mary wants to give up her silly little
flirtations, and turn serious?"

"That is exactly what she says," Rochester answered. "I don't believe
she has the least idea that what she proposes comes so near to
tragedy."

"What have you answered?" Pauline asked.

"We have established a probationary period," he said. "We have agreed
to see a little more of one another. I drove her down to Ranelagh
yesterday afternoon, and we are going to dine together to-night. What
am I to do, Pauline? I have come to ask you. We must decide it
together, you and I."

She leaned a little forward in her chair. Her hands were clasped
together. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy.

"It is a thunderbolt," she murmured.

"It is amazing."

"You must go back to her."

Rochester drew a little breath between his teeth.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked.

"Yes, I know!" she answered. "And yet it is inevitable. What have you
and I to look forward to? Sometimes I think that it is weakness to see
so much of one another."

"I am afraid," Rochester said slowly, "that I would sooner have you
for my dear friend, than be married to any woman who ever lived."

"I wonder," she said softly. "I wonder. You yourself," she continued,
"have always held that there is a certain vulgarity, a certain loss of
fine feeling in the consummation of any attachment. The very barrier
between us makes our intercourse seem sweeter and more desirable."