“And you are my love.”

“You would make me—your mistress.”

He did not answer, and for a long while nothing broke the stillness save the crackle of the wood in the hearth. It was my lord who spoke first.

“So this is the end,” he said wistfully. “We might have been so happy, dear.”

She shook her head dumbly. He sighed.

“Well… what now, Mary?”

“My lord—if you would but—send him back to me!”

“’Tis only Sophia can do that, love.”

“You could—induce her. Henry—for my sake!”

“For your sake…” He touched her hair caressingly. “Very well, child. He shall be sent back to you, but ’twill be the end. There can then be nothing more between us. You know that.”

“It—is best,” she answered dully. Suddenly she caught at his shoulders. “You won’t—think hardly of me? I love you so, my lord! I love you so!”

For a minute she lay against his heart, clinging to him. Then she drew herself away resolutely.

“Please—go now, my lord. You will find them together—as always. Please go!”

He rose, she also. She gave him her hands, and for a long moment he held them, looking down into her brave eyes. Then he bent and kissed the quivering fingers very tenderly.

“God keep you, child—and give you—happiness.”

“And you,” she whispered, broken-hearted.

II.

HE walked home through the clearing fog, his hand clenched on his snuff-box, his cloak swinging open from his shoulders. Someone hailed him from across the street, but he neither saw nor heard. He was thinking drearily of what lay before him.

His wife for six years… He remembered her as she had been when first they were married. He thought of her sensual desire for emotion, her hysterics, the luxury of her repentances. He had gone through all that. A hundred times she had transgressed, a hundred times returned to his arms, lapped in yet another sensation.

He had tried to hold her, God knew! but she would not have it so. Then, at last, sick to death of the constant quarrels, of the unrestrained reconciliations, worn out with the anxiety of trying to hold a wife whose heart was too shallow for constancy, he had given up the never-ending struggle.

For three years now they had met as chance acquaintances, although she lived still in his house, spending his money. He allowed her to tread her own path so that he might have peace… Then Mary, with her sweet mouth and her steadfast eyes. That was over too. He must take back Sophia for Mary’s sake, bear with her moods, submit to her caresses.

Mr. Hatton was in the boudoir with my lady. Lord Farquhar was indifferent to the curious glance the footman bestowed on him. He threw down his hat and cloak and walked to the great carven-oak staircase. He mounted it slowly, one waxen hand on the baluster, dreading the scene that awaited him. Every fibre of his body was shrinking from it, but his face was impassive as ever, the eyes quietly cynical, deadly tired.