ur father--and your mother.'

'No, I don't,' she cried passionately. 'I tell you I don't. You didn't
know. But I think of it all, sometimes. And that's why--that's why----'

She sat down again.

'By God, May,' he swore, 'I'm frightfully sorry!'

'I never meant to tell you,' she said, composing herself. 'But, there!
things slip out. Good-night.'

She was gone, but in passing him she had timidly caressed his shoulder.

'It's all up,' he said to himself. 'This will always be between us. No
one could expect her to forget it.'

V

Gradually her characteristic habits deserted her; she seemed to lose
energy and a part of her interest in those things which had occupied her
most. She changed her dress less frequently, ignoring dressmakers, and
she showed no longer the ravishing elegance of the bride. She often lay
in bed till noon, she who had always entered the dining-room at nine
o'clock precisely to dispense his coffee and listen to his remarks on
the contents of the newspaper. She said 'As you please' to the cook, and
the meals began to lose their piquancy. She paid no calls, but some of
her women friends continued, nevertheless, to visit her. Lastly, she
took to sewing. The little dark doctor, who had become an acquaintance,
smiled at her and told her to do no more than she felt disposed to do.
She reclined on sofas in shaded rooms, and appeared to meditate. She was
not depressed, but thoughtful. It was as though she had much to settle
in her own mind. At intervals the faint sound of the Hungarian Rhapsody
mingled with her reveries.

As for Edward, his behaviour was immaculate. During the day he made
money furiously. In the evening he sat with his wife. They did not talk
much, and he never questioned her. She developed a certain curious
whimsicality now and then; but for him she could do no wrong.

The past was not mentioned. They both looked apprehensively towards the
future, towards a crisis which they knew was inexorably approaching.
They were afraid, while pretending to have no fear.

And one afternoon, precipitately, surprisingly, the crisis came.

'You are the father of a son--a very noisy son,' said the doctor, coming
into the drawing-room where Edward had sat in torture for three hours.

'And May?'

'Oh, never fear: she's doing excellently.'

'Can I go and see her?' he asked, like a humble petitioner.

'Well--yes,' said the doctor, 'for one minute; not more.'

So he went into the bedroom as i