t of that letter,--which was now awaiting him
at home,--he had told himself half a dozen times that he must and would
play the part of Joseph. He had so resolved when she had first spoken
to him of her passion, now some months ago; and then his resolution had
broken down merely because he had not at the moment thought any great
step to be necessary. But now it was clear that some great step was
necessary. He must make her know that it did not suit him to be called
"dearest George" by her, or to be told to declare that he loved her.
And this accusation against his wife, made in such coarse and brutal
language by his brother, softened his heart to her. Why, oh why, had he
allowed himself to be brought up to a place he hated as he had always
hated London! Of course Jack De Baron made him unhappy, though he was
at the present moment prepared to swear that his wife was as innocent
as any woman in London.

But now, as he was so near, and as his decision must be declared in
person, he might as well go to Berkeley Square. As he descended Hay
Hill he put his hand into his pocket for the lady's letter, and pulled
out that from the Dean which he had intended to leave with his wife. In
an instant he knew what he had done. He remembered it all, even to the
way in which he had made the mistake with the two letters. There could
be no doubt but that he had given Adelaide Houghton's letter into his
wife's hands, and that she had read it. At the bottom of Hill Street,
near the stables, he stopped suddenly and put his hand up to his head.
What should he do now? He certainly could not pay his visit in Berkeley
Square. He could not go and tell Mrs. Houghton that he loved her, and
certainly would not have strength to tell her that he did not love her
while suffering such agony as this. Of course he must see his wife. Of
course he must,--if I may use the slang phrase,--of course he must
"have it out with her," after some fashion, and the sooner the better.
So he turned his stops homewards across the Green Park. But, in going
homewards, he did not walk very fast.

What would she do? How would she take it? Of course women daily forgive
such offences; and he might probably, after the burst of the storm was
over, succeed in making her believe that he did in truth love her and
did not love the other woman. In his present mood he was able to assure
himself most confidently that such was the truth. He could tell himself
now that he never wished to