t his wife had no notion of
suffering him to hide his borrowed light under a bushel.

A supper-table laid for two people gleamed bright from the cheeriest
corner. A fire crackled beneath the marble mantelshelf. The latest
evening paper lay upon a chair; and, brushing it carelessly with her
costly dress, the woman he had so basely deserted came smiling to meet
him.

"Well, Mr. Richard Devine," said she, "you did not expect to see me
again, did you?"

Although, on his journey down, he had composed an elaborate speech
wherewith to greet her, this unnatural civility dumbfounded him. "Sarah!
I never meant to--"

"Hush, my dear Richard--it must be Richard now, I suppose. This is not
the time for explanations. Besides, the waiter might hear you. Let us
have some supper; you must be hungry, I am sure." He advanced to the
table mechanically. "But how fat you are!" she continued. "Too good
living, I suppose. You were not so fat at Port Ar---Oh, I forgot, my
dear! Come and sit down. That's right. I have told them all that I am
your wife, for whom you have sent. They regard me with some interest and
respect in consequence. Don't spoil their good opinion of me."

He was about to utter an imprecation, but she stopped him by a glance.
"No bad language, John, or I shall ring for a constable. Let us
understand one another, my dear. You may be a very great man to other
people, but to me you are merely my runaway husband--an escaped convict.
If you don't eat your supper civilly, I shall send for the police."

"Sarah!" he burst out, "I never meant to desert you. Upon my word. It is
all a mistake. Let me explain."

"There is no need for explanations yet, Jack--I mean Richard. Have your
supper. Ah! I know what you want."

She poured out half a tumbler of brandy, and gave it to him. He took the
glass from her hand, drank the contents, and then, as though warmed by
the spirit, laughed. "What a woman you are, Sarah. I have been a great
brute, I confess."

"You have been an ungrateful villain," said she, with sudden passion, "a
hardened, selfish villain."

"But, Sarah--"

"Don't touch me!" "'Pon my word, you are a fine creature, and I was a
fool to leave you." The compliment seemed to soothe her, for her tone
changed somewhat. "It was a wicked, cruel act, Jack. You whom I saved
from death--whom I nursed--whom I enriched. It was the act of a coward."

"I admit it. It was." "You admit it. Have you no shame then? Have you no
pity fo