g to plunge it in Harry's neck....
Horrified at his own fancy, he looked away from it and thought of
Valentia. Valentia would smile and be happy now, and everything would go
smoothly again. He would not have to say anything painful to her; she
would never be uncomfortable in his presence. In time she would probably
grow tired of Harry and could turn to him, Romer, again, with more
affection than if anything painful had passed between them.... His
attitude had been extraordinarily unselfish, and yet it had its root in
the deep scheming selfishness and subtle calculation of the passion of
love. To get Valentia back, as he vaguely hoped, some time, however
distant, he had acted most wisely, and he knew it. For he cared for her
far too much ever to have conventional thoughts on the subject. It never
even occurred to him to try to act as the husband ought to act, or as by
the incessant insidious influence of plays and novels most of us have
been brought up to think he ought to act. Most people are far more
guided than they know in their views of life by the artificial
conventions of the theatre and of literature, or by tradition. In fact,
most people are other people. Romer was himself. He thought simply for
himself, like a child. And so it happened that he acted in a crisis
terrible to him, more wisely for his own interest than the most
sophisticated of men....

* * * * *

"Here is the letter. Will you read it?"

Romer read it and put it back in the envelope. Then he said--

"All right. You're going back to the Green Gate this afternoon?"

"If I may."

"I shall be back to-morrow," said Romer, in his ordinary voice.

Harry accompanied him to the door and held out his hand.

Romer hesitated a moment. Then he said--

"Good-bye," with a nod, and went away, taking no notice of it.

* * * * *

"By Jove!" said Harry, to himself.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE LIMIT

Romer went back to his hotel that evening feeling happier than he had
ever expected to be again. He felt sure now that everything would be
perfectly right. He refused to allow himself to dwell for a moment on
possibilities, and on what had been, or on what might have been. But he
was like a man who had been slightly stunned by a blow on the head and
was beginning to feel the pain the next day. Yet the pain was not very
acute; he did not quite realise it, but, unconsciously, it made him
feverish. And he was sti