better if we part now.'

She rose and watched him as he stepped to the table and took his hat.
There was a moment's hesitation on either side, but Beatrice did not
offer her hand. She stood superbly, as a queen might dismiss one from
whom her thoughts were already wandering. He bowed, with inward
self-mockery, and left her.

Some hours later, when already the summer evening had cloaked itself,
Wilfrid found himself wandering by the river, not far from Hammersmith.
The influence of a great water flowing from darkness into darkness was
strong upon him; he was seeking for a hope in the transitoriness of all
things earthly. Would not the hour come when this present anguish, this
blood-poisoning shame, would have passed far away and have left no mark?
Was it not thinking too grandiosely to attribute to the actions of such
a one as himself a tragic gravity? Was there not supernal laughter at
the sight of him, Wilfrid Athel, an English gentleman, a member of the
Lower House of the British Parliament, posing as the arbiter of
destinies? What did it all come to? An imbroglio on the threshold of
matrimony; a temporary doubt which of two women was to enjoy the honour
of styling herself Mrs. Athel. The day's long shame led to this
completeness of self-contempt. As if Beatrice would greatly care! Why,
in his very behaviour he had offered the cure for her heartburn; and her
calmness showed how effective the remedy would be. The very wife whom he
held securely had only been won by keeping silence; tell her the story
of the last few days, and behold him altogether wifeless. He laughed
scornfully. To this had he come from those dreams which guided him when
he was a youth. A commonplace man, why should he not have commonplace
experiences?

He had walked in this direction with the thought of passing beneath
Emily's window before he returned home, yet, now that he was not more
than half an hour's walk from her, he felt weary and looked aside for a
street which should lead him to the region of vehicles. As he did so, he
noticed a woman's form leaning over the riverside parapet at a short
distance. A thought drew him nearer to her. Yes, it was Emily herself.

'You were coming to see me?' she asked.

Love in a woman's voice--what cynicism so perdurable that it will bear
against that assailant? In the dusk, he put her gloved hand against his
lips, and the touch made him once more noble.

'I had meant to, beautiful, but it seemed too late