of an evening like this. You have actually given up a
dinner-party to dine alone with me."

"And made you give up a political meeting," she reminded him.

"Quite an unimportant one," he assured her. "I would have given up
anything to see you your old self again--as you are this evening."

"I am afraid I have not been very nice," she said sadly. "Never mind.
You must think of this evening, John, sometimes--as a sort of
atonement."

"I hope," he answered, looking at her in some surprise, "that we shall
have many more such to think about."

They were lingering over their dessert. The servants had left the
room. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little
folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it.

"I am developing ailments," she said, meeting his questioning eyes.
"It is nothing of any importance. John, I have something to say to
you."

"If you want to ask a favour," he remarked smiling, "you have made it
almost impossible for me to refuse you anything."

"I am going to ask more than a favour," she said slowly. "I am going
to ask for your forgiveness."

He was a little uneasy.

"I do not know what you mean," he said, "but if you are referring to
any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again.
I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I'm afraid, but if you treat me
like this you will teach me to forget it."

Annabel looked intently into her glass.

"John," she said, "I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. I
am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me."

He relapsed into a stony silence. A few feet away, across the low
vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night
perhaps than ever before in her life. She wore a wonderful dress of
turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she
knew very well now that she would never attend. Her hair once more was
arranged with its old simplicity. There was a new softness in her
eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost
pathetic.

"You remember our first meeting?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely. "I remember it very well indeed. You have
the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a
frightened child."

She looked into her glass.

"I was frightened then," she declared. "I am frightened now. But it is
all very different. There was hope for me then. Now there is none. No,
none at all."

"You talk strangely, Anna," he said