ould I do more than I already have done,' he
replied. 'And after what you have told me, it is impossible for me to go
and see her unless she expressly invites me.'

'Oh, if only you would overcome this sensitiveness!'

'It is not in my power to do so. My poverty, as you justly say, was the
cause of our parting; but if Amy is no longer poor, that is very far
from a reason why I should go to her as a suppliant for forgiveness.'

'But do consider the facts of the case, independently of feeling.

I really think I don't go too far in saying that at least some--some
provocation was given by you first of all. I am so very, very far from
wishing to say anything disagreeable--I am sure you feel that--but
wasn't there some little ground for complaint on Amy's part? Wasn't
there, now?'

Reardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to think
over what had happened, and Mrs Yule's urgent voice rasped upon his
ears. Its very smoothness made it worse.

'There may have been ground for grief and concern,' he answered, 'but
for complaint, no, I think not.'

'But I understand'--the voice sounded rather irritable now--'that you
positively reproached and upbraided her because she was reluctant to go
and live in some very shocking place.'

'I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown--But I can't review our
troubles in this way.'

'Am I to plead in vain?'

'I regret very much that I can't possibly do as you wish. It is all
between Amy and myself. Interference by other people cannot do any
good.'

'I am sorry you should use such a word as "interference,"' replied Mrs
Yule, bridling a little. 'Very sorry, indeed. I confess it didn't occur
to me that my good-will to you could be seen in that light.'

'Believe me that I didn't use the word offensively.'

'Then you refuse to take any step towards a restoration of good
feeling?'

'I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say so.'

His earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs Yule had no choice but
to rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded herself
sufficiently to offer a regretful hand.

'I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate.'

Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospital
and walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction.

Ah! if this had happened in the first year of his marriage, what more
blessed man than he would have walked the earth! But it came after
irreparable harm. No