letter, Nina?
For me?"

"It's for Phil. Boots brought it around. Leave it on the library table,
dear, when you go down."

Eileen took the letter and turned away. A few moments later as she laid
it on the library table, her eyes involuntarily noted the superscription
written in the long, angular, fashionable writing of a woman.

And slowly the inevitable question took shape within her.

How long she stood there she did not know, but the points of her gloved
fingers were still resting on the table and her gaze was still
concentrated on the envelope when she felt Selwyn's presence in the
room, near, close; and looked up into his steady eyes. And knew he loved
her.

And suddenly she broke down--for with his deep gaze in hers the
overwrought spectre had fled!--broke down, no longer doubting, bowing
her head in her slim gloved hands, thrilled to the soul with the
certitude of their unhappiness eternal, and the dreadful pleasure of her
share.

"What is it?" he made out to say, managing also to keep his hands off
her where she sat, bowed and quivering by the table.

"N-nothing. A--a little crisis--over now--nearly over.
It was that letter--other women writing you. . . . And
I--outlawed--tongue-tied. . . . Don't look at me, don't wait.
I--I am going out."

He went to the window, stood a moment, came back to the table, took his
letter, and walked slowly again to the window.

After a while he heard the rustle of her gown as she left the room, and
a little later he straightened up, passed his hand across his tired
eyes, and, looking down at the letter in his hand, broke the seal.

It was from one of the nurses, Miss Casson, and shorter than usual:

"Mrs. Ruthven is physically in perfect health, but yesterday we noted a
rather startling change in her mental condition. There were, during the
day, intervals that seemed perfectly lucid. Once she spoke of Miss Bond
as 'the other nurse,' as though she realised something of the conditions
surrounding her. Once, too, she seemed astonished when I brought her a
doll, and asked me:' Is there a child here? Or is it for a charity
bazaar?'

"Later I found her writing a letter at my desk. She left it unfinished
when she went to drive--a mere scrap. I thought it best to enclose it,
which I do, herewith."

The enclosure he opened:

"Phil, dear, though I have been very ill I know you are my own husband.
All the rest was only a child's dream of terror--"

And that was all--only t