he broke into a laugh—mirthless, hollow.
"And I prayed to my God to send his blessing on—our—future," he said in a dull, mechanical manner. "Well, the last act is played out and they may ring the curtain down. From to-night I believe neither in woman, Heaven, nor hell, save that which each man makes for himself."
Bella had turned her shapely back on the apotheosis of respectability for a life of excitement and the protection of another man. Nobody was surprised but John himself.
Everybody had predicted it months ago. The only astonishing feature of the scandal was, that it had not occurred before.
The one other thing people found surprising was the callousness with which the injured husband took it.
It had always been believed that what love there was, was on his side, but now—
Well, it is indeed an ill wind that blows us no good. If notoriety was what John Chetwynd desired, he got it in full measure, well pressed down and brimming over; his waiting room was besieged, for many patients flocked there, wide eyed in scrutiny, martyrs to symptoms discovered or invented for the occasion.
Of course he would divorce her. And he did.
In due course he obtained his decree nisi, which later on was made absolute.
Bella's picture no longer stared him in the face from every hoarding, and the newspaper advertisements knew her no more. She had gone back to the States, and by-and-by was forgotten on this side the Atlantic.
Now and then he was disagreeably reminded of her existence.
Once in the Club a young fellow to whom Chetwynd was personally unknown stretched himself behind a newspaper and muttered, "Bella Blackall Wasn't that the name of Dr. Somebody's wife who ran away with another fellow?"
"Yes, Bella Blackall was my wife," John Chetwynd answered with unruffled equanimity, picking up the paper which the other had thrown down. "She used to be rather a clever dancer, too."
And he calmly
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