ing so
he would have laid bare his sore before his servants. He could not
follow her, because he knew that he should not find her alone in her
room. Nor did he wish for any further parley, because he knew that
she would speak loud, and probably sob--nay, very possibly proceed to
a fainting fit. And, moreover, he much doubted whether he would have
the power to keep her in the house if it should be her pleasure to
leave it. And then what should he do? The doing of something in such
a catastrophe was, he thought, indispensable.

Was ever a man so ill treated? Was ever jealousy so groundless? Here
was a woman, with whom he was on the point of quarrelling, who was
engaged to be married to another man, whom for months past he had
only seen as a client; and on her account he was to be told by his
wife that she would not consent to live with him! Yes; it was quite
indispensable that he should do something.

At last he went to bed, and slept upon it; not sharing the marital
couch, but occupying his own dressing-room. In the morning, however,
as he sat down to his solitary breakfast, he was as far as ever from
having made up his mind what that something should be. A message
was brought to him by an elderly female servant with a grave
face,--the elderly servant who had lived with them since their
poorer days,--saying that "Missus would not come down to breakfast
this morning." There was no love sent, no excuse as to illness, no
semblance of a peaceable reason, assumed even to deceive the servant.
It was clear to Mr. Furnival that the servant was intended to know
all about it. "And Miss Biggs says, sir, that if you please you're
not to wait for her."

"Very well, that'll do," said Mr. Furnival, who had not the slightest
intention of waiting for Miss Biggs; and then he sat himself down to
eat his bacon, and bethink himself what step he would take with this
recreant and troublesome spouse.

While he was thus employed the post came. The bulk of his letters as
a matter of course went to his chambers; but there were those among
his correspondents who wrote to him at Harley Street. To-day he
received three or four letters, but our concern will be with one
only. This one bore the Hamworth post-mark, and he opened it the
first, knowing that it came from Lady Mason. It was as follows:--

_Private_

THE CLEEVE, 23rd January, 18--.

MY DEAR MR. FURNIVAL,

I am so very sorry that I did not see you to-day! Indeed,
y