r another, and she pictured his days spent at
race-meetings and his evenings at the play.

"It can't go on at his age," she said. "After all, he's forty.
I could understand it in a young man, but I think it's
horrible in a man of his years, with children who are nearly
grown up. His health will never stand it."

Anger struggled in her breast with misery.

"Tell him that our home cries out for him. Everything is just
the same, and yet everything is different. I can't live
without him. I'd sooner kill myself. Talk to him about the past,
and all we've gone through together. What am I to say
to the children when they ask for him? His room is exactly as
it was when he left it. It's waiting for him. We're all
waiting for him."

Now she told me exactly what I should say. She gave me
elaborate answers to every possible observation of his.

"You will do everything you can for me?" she said pitifully.
"Tell him what a state I'm in."

I saw that she wished me to appeal to his sympathies by every
means in my power. She was weeping freely. I was
extraordinarily touched. I felt indignant at Strickland's
cold cruelty, and I promised to do all I could to bring him back.
I agreed to go over on the next day but one, and to
stay in Paris till I had achieved something. Then, as it was
growing late and we were both exhausted by so much emotion,
I left her.

Chapter XI

During the journey I thought over my errand with misgiving.
Now that I was free from the spectacle of Mrs. Strickland's
distress I could consider the matter more calmly. I was
puzzled by the contradictions that I saw in her behaviour.
She was very unhappy, but to excite my sympathy she was able
to make a show of her unhappiness. It was evident that she
had been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with a
sufficiency of handkerchiefs; I admired her forethought, but
in retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving. I could
not decide whether she desired the return of her husband
because she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of
scandal; and I was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguish
of love contemned was alloyed in her broken heart with the
pangs, sordid to my young mind, of wounded vanity. I had not
yet learnt how contradictory is human nature; I did not know
how much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in
the noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate.

But there was something of an advent