ndifference to you whether Mr. Quarrier's
career is ruined or not?"

"I don't see why I should think much about a man who has injured me as
he has."

"No," conceded Mrs. Wade, sadly. "I understand that you have nothing
whatever in view but recovering your wife?"

"That's all I want."

"And yet, Mr. Northway, I'm sure you see how very difficult it will be
for you to gain this end."

She leaned towards him sympathetically. Northway shuffled, sucked in
his cheeks, and spoke in as civil a tone as he could command.

"There are difficulties, I know. I don't ask her to come at once and
live with me. I couldn't expect that. But I am determined she sha'n't
go back to Mr. Quarrier. I have a right to forbid it."

"Indeed--abstractly speaking--I think you have," murmured Mrs. Wade,
with a glance towards the door. "But I grieve to tell you that there
seems to me no possibility of preventing her return."

"I shall have to use what means I can. You say Mr. Quarrier wouldn't
care to have this made public just now."

He knew (or imagined) that the threat was idle, but it seemed to him
that Mrs. Wade, already favourably disposed, might be induced to
counsel Lilian for the avoidance of a scandal at this moment.

"Mr. Northway," replied the widow, "I almost think that he would care
less for such a disclosure _before_ this election than _after_ it."

He met her eyes, and tried to understand her. But whatever she meant,
it could be of no importance to him. Quarrier was doomed by the Tory
agent; on this knowledge he congratulated himself, in spite of the fact
that another state of things would have been more to his interest.

"I have really nothing to do with that," he replied. "My wife is living
a life of wickedness--and she shall be saved from it at once."

Mrs. Wade had much difficulty in keeping her countenance. She looked
down, and drew a deep sigh.

"That is only too true. But I fear--indeed I fear--that you won't
succeed in parting them. There is a reason--I cannot mention it."

Northway was puzzled for a moment, then his face darkened; he seemed to
understand.

"I do so wish," pursued Mrs. Wade, with a smile of sympathy, "that I
could be of some use in this sad affair. My advice--I am afraid you
will be very unwilling to listen to it."

She paused, looking at him wistfully.

"What would it be?" he asked.

"I feel so strongly--just as you do--that it is dreadful to have to
countenance such a state of things; but