"The whole thing," said the Colonel, "is incomprehensible to me."

For the rest of the evening he remained visibly subdued by the
presence of the incomprehensible; after coffee he pulled himself
together and prepared to face it.

"There will be no whist this evening," he announced. "You will
excuse me, Durant; I have an immensity of work on hand. Chaplin, put
some whiskey and water in the study, and light the little lamp on my
literary machine."

Tuesday morning's post brought explanation. Two letters lay on the
breakfast table, both from a fresh hotel, the _Hotel Metropole_,
both addressed in Frida Tancred's handwriting, one to the Colonel
and the other to Durant. Durant's ran thus:

"DEAR MR. DURANT:--You will explain everything to my father,
won't you? I have done my best, but he will never see it; it is
the sort of thing he never could see--my reasons for going away
and staying away. They are hard to understand, but, as far as I
have made them out myself, it seems that I went away for his
sake; but I believe, in fact I know, that I shall stay away for
my own. You will understand it; we thrashed it all out that
Saturday afternoon--you remember?--and you understood then. And
so I trust you.

"Always sincerely yours,

"FRIDA TANCRED.

"P.S.--Write and tell me how he takes it. I can see it--so
clearly!--from his point of view. I hope he will not be unhappy.

"P.P.S.--We sail to-morrow."

He was still knitting his brows over the opening sentences when the
Colonel flicked his own letter across the table.

"Read this, Durant, and tell me what you think of it."

Durant read:

"MY DEAR FATHER:--You will see from Georgie's telegram that we
shall be leaving England to-morrow. I did not tell you this
before because it would have meant so much explanation, and if
we once began explaining things I don't think I should ever
have gone at all. And I had to go. Believe me, I was convinced
that in going I was doing the best thing for you. I thought you
had been making sacrifices for my sake, and that you would be
happier without me, though you would not say so. Whether I could
have brought myself to leave you without the help of this
conviction, and whether I have the conviction strongly still, I
cannot say; it is hard to be perfectly honest, even with myself.
But now that I have gone I simply can't come back again. Not
yet. Perhaps never, till I ha