s the weather.

But Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace prided herself on frankness, which is less
common in pretty women than in plain; and she had no hesitation in
discussing with James matters that he had never heard discussed before.
She was hugely amused at the embarrassment which made him hesitate and
falter, trying to find polite ways of expressing the things which his
whole training had taught him to keep rigidly to himself. Then
sometimes, from pure devilry, Mrs. Wallace told stories on purpose to
shock him; and revelled in his forced, polite smile, and in his strong
look of disapproval.

"What a funny boy you are!" she said. "But you must take care, you know;
you have all the makings of a perfect prig."

"D'you think so?"

"You must try to be less moral. The moral young man is rather funny for
a change, but he palls after a time."

"If I bore you, you have only to say so, and I won't bother you again."

"And moral young men shouldn't get cross; it's very bad manners," she
answered, smiling.

Before he knew what had happened, James found himself madly in love with
Mrs. Wallace. But what a different passion was this, resembling not at
all that pallid flame which alone he had experienced! How could he
recognise the gentle mingling of friendship and of common-sense which he
called love in that destroying violence which troubled his days like a
fever? He dreamed of the woman at night; he seemed only to live when he
was with her. The mention of her name made his heart beat, and meeting
her he trembled and turned cold. By her side he found nothing to say; he
was like wax in her hands, without will or strength. The touch of her
fingers sent the blood rushing through his veins insanely; and
understanding his condition, she took pleasure in touching him, to watch
the little shiver of desire that convulsed his frame. In a very
self-restrained man love works ruinously; and it burnt James now, this
invisible, unconscious fire, till he was consumed utterly--till he was
mad with passion. And then suddenly, at some chance word, he knew what
had happened; he knew that he was in love with the wife of his good
friend, Pritchard-Wallace; and he thought of Mary Clibborn.

There was no hesitation now, nor doubt; James had only been in danger
because he was unaware of it. He never thought of treachery to his
friend or to Mary; he was horror-stricken, hating himself. He looked
over the brink of the precipice at the deadly sin, and recoil