this had been going on nearly a year, came the climax; and I learned, with a shock that was all the greater because of its suddenness, how unjust fate may be to a man who unreservedly trusts one he loves and who always tries to do the best he can in every way.

The morning of the particular day I have to tell of, I remember, I went to the office feeling miserably ill. I had taken a sudden chill the night before, and rose with a slight fever and the start of the grip or something of the kind.

About four o’clock in the afternoon I felt so badly, I left the office and went home. Ruth was out and I went into the library, planning to sleep for an hour or two before dinner. I sat down in a large easy-chair in a darkened corner of the room, partly sheltered from the window-light by a screen which stood near by. I was feeling really very miserable and soon fell into a troubled slumber.

I was awakened by the sound of voices and realized that my wife and Gerald Rolf were in the room. Evidently they had not seen me. They were sitting over by the windows and Ruth was serving him tea; I could just see them from my chair, around the corner of the screen.

The first words that I heard, as soon as I was fully awake, electrified me. And yet I remained silent, did not make my presence known then. I do not know why, for I am not one who believes in eaves-dropping.

It was Rolf’s voice.

“We must face it,” he said. “There is no avoiding it now.”

Ruth did not answer at once. I saw her face was very pale, and her hand trembled as she poured him a cup of tea.

“You should not have told me you loved me, too,” he went on. “That would have made it easier. You should have rebuked me—sent me away.”

Another silence.

“I’m going anyhow,” he added.

“Gerald!” She put her hand on his arm.

“There’s no other way, is there?” He met her eyes steadily. “I love you too much to do anything else but go away. You can understand that, can’t you? After to-day—after what we’ve confessed to each other.”

I held myself back with an effort. My brain was whirling. That this impudent boy should dare talk to Ruth—to my wife—like this!

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