was effectually quenched.

'Listen! That's the clink of the letter-box. A card or something has
been put in. Then it's all right. I'll wait a moment.'

He stepped to the door of the room, opened it without sound, and at
once heard footsteps descending the stairs. In the look which he cast
back at her, a grin rather than a smile, Monica saw something that gave
her a pang of shame on his behalf. On going to the letter-box he found
a card, with a few words scribbled upon it.

'Only one of our partners!' he exclaimed gleefully. 'Wants to see me
to-night. Of course he took it for granted I was out.'

Monica was looking at her watch. Past five o'clock.

'I think I must go,' she said timidly.

'But what are our arrangements? Do you still intend--'

'Intend? Isn't it for you to decide?'

There was a coldness in the words of both, partly the result of the
great shock they had undergone, in part due to their impatience with
each other.

'Darling--do what I proposed at first. Stay for a few days, until I am
settled at Bordeaux.'

'Stay with my--my husband?'

She used the word purposely, significantly, to see how it would affect
him. The bitterness of her growing disillusion allowed her to think and
speak as if no ardent feeling were concerned.

'For both our sakes, dearest, dearest love! A few days longer, until I
have written to you, and told you exactly what to do. The journey won't
be very difficult for you; and think how much better, dear Monica, if
we can escape discovery, and live for each other without any shame or
fear to disturb us. You will be my own dear true wife. I will love and
guard you as long as I live.'

He embraced her with placid tenderness, laying his cheek against hers,
kissing her hands.

'We must see each other again,' he continued. 'Come on Sunday, will
you? And in the meantime find out some place where I could address
letters to you. You can always find a stationer's shop where they will
receive letters. Be guided by me, dear little girl. Only a week or
two--to save the happiness of our whole lives.'

Monica listened, but with half-attention, her look fixed on the floor.
Encouraged by her silence, the lover went on in a strain of heightening
enthusiasm, depicting the raptures of their retirement from the world
in some suburb of Bordeaux. How this retreat was to escape the notice
of his business companions, through whom the scandal might get wind, he
did not suggest. The truth was, Bevis