uties of
life."

O'Brien smiled.

"You would have me take out my Celtic soul and put in a Saxon one," he
said. "Either my brain is too small or my heart is too big. But when
may I call and pay my respects to Mrs. Grey? Will she be at home this
afternoon?"

"She is at home now. Come into the morning-room. She will be glad to
make your acquaintance."

They walked across the linoleum-paved hall. The Professor opened the
door of the room, and walked in, followed by his friend. Mrs. Grey was
sitting in a basket-chair by the window, light and fairy-like in a
loose-flowing, pink morning-gown. Seeing a visitor, she rose and swept
towards them. The Professor heard a dull thud behind him. O'Brien had
fallen back into a chair, with his hand pressed tight to his side.

"Jinny!" he gasped--"Jinny!"

Mrs. Grey stopped dead in her advance, and stared at him with a face
from which every expression had been struck out, save one of
astonishment and horror. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath she
reeled, and would have fallen had the Professor not thrown his long,
nervous arm round her.

"Try this sofa," said he.

She sank back among the cushions with the same white, cold, dead look
upon her face. The Professor stood with his back to the empty
fireplace and glanced from the one to the other.

"So, O'Brien," he said at last, "you have already made the acquaintance
of my wife!"

"Your wife," cried his friend hoarsely. "She is no wife of yours. God
help me, she is MY wife."

The Professor stood rigidly upon the hearthrug. His long, thin fingers
were intertwined, and his head sunk a little forward. His two
companions had eyes only for each other.

"Jinny!" said he.

"James!"

"How could you leave me so, Jinny? How could you have the heart to do
it? I thought you were dead. I mourned for your death--ay, and you
have made me mourn for you living. You have withered my life."

She made no answer, but lay back among her cushions with her eyes still
fixed upon him.

"Why do you not speak?"

"Because you are right, James. I HAVE treated you cruelly--shamefully.
But it is not as bad as you think."

"You fled with De Horta."

"No, I did not. At the last moment my better nature prevailed. He
went alone. But I was ashamed to come back after what I had written to
you. I could not face you. I took passage alone to England under a
new name, and here I have lived ever since. It seemed to me that I