thetically; then she murmured an excuse to Mrs.
van der Luyden, and rose from her seat just as Marguerite fell into
Faust's arms. Archer, while he helped her on with her Opera cloak,
noticed the exchange of a significant smile between the older ladies.

As they drove away May laid her hand shyly on his. "I'm so sorry you
don't feel well. I'm afraid they've been overworking you again at the
office."

"No--it's not that: do you mind if I open the window?" he returned
confusedly, letting down the pane on his side. He sat staring out into
the street, feeling his wife beside him as a silent watchful
interrogation, and keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the passing
houses. At their door she caught her skirt in the step of the
carriage, and fell against him.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, steadying her with his arm.

"No; but my poor dress--see how I've torn it!" she exclaimed. She bent
to gather up a mud-stained breadth, and followed him up the steps into
the hall. The servants had not expected them so early, and there was
only a glimmer of gas on the upper landing.

Archer mounted the stairs, turned up the light, and put a match to the
brackets on each side of the library mantelpiece. The curtains were
drawn, and the warm friendly aspect of the room smote him like that of
a familiar face met during an unavowable errand.

He noticed that his wife was very pale, and asked if he should get her
some brandy.

"Oh, no," she exclaimed with a momentary flush, as she took off her
cloak. "But hadn't you better go to bed at once?" she added, as he
opened a silver box on the table and took out a cigarette.

Archer threw down the cigarette and walked to his usual place by the
fire.

"No; my head is not as bad as that." He paused. "And there's
something I want to say; something important--that I must tell you at
once."

She had dropped into an armchair, and raised her head as he spoke.
"Yes, dear?" she rejoined, so gently that he wondered at the lack of
wonder with which she received this preamble.

"May--" he began, standing a few feet from her chair, and looking over
at her as if the slight distance between them were an unbridgeable
abyss. The sound of his voice echoed uncannily through the homelike
hush, and he repeated: "There is something I've got to tell you ...
about myself ..."

She sat silent, without a movement or a tremor of her lashes. She was
still extremely pale, but her face had a curious