to himself the dry-as-dust axioms conceived in an alien
brain, and weaving from them the miserable comfort of empty words. The
man who knows life and has found wisdom, pays the price for the thing he
desires, and obtains it!"

CHAPTER XVII

DUTY INTERFERES AGAIN

Hunterleys sat that night alone in a seat at the Opera for a time and
lost himself in a maze of recollections. He seemed to find himself
growing younger as he listened to the music. The days of a more vivid
and ardent sentimentality seemed to reassert themselves. He thought of
the hours when he had sat side by side with his wife, the only woman to
whom he had ever given a thought; of the thrill which even the touch of
her fingers had given him, of the drive home together, the little
confidences and endearments, the glamour which seemed to have been
thrown over life before those unhappy misunderstandings. He remembered
so well the beginning of them all--the terrible pressure of work which
was thrown upon his shoulders, his engrossed days, his disturbed nights;
her patience at first, her subsequent petulance, her final anger. He was
engaged often in departmental work which he could not even explain. She
had taken up with unhappy facility the role of a neglected wife. She
declared that he had ceased to care for the lighter ways. There had
certainly been a time when her complaints had been apparently justified,
when the Opera had been banned, theatres were impossible, when she could
not even rely upon his escort to a dinner or to a reception. He had
argued with her very patiently at first but very unsuccessfully. It was
then that her friendship with Linda Draconmeyer had been so vigorously
renewed, a friendship which seemed from the first to have threatened his
happiness. Had it been his fault? he wondered. Had he really been too
much engrossed in his work? His country had made large demands upon him
in those days. Had he ever explained the matter fully and carefully
enough to her? Perhaps not. At any rate, he was the sufferer. He
realised more than ever, as the throbbing of the music stole into his
blood, the loneliness of his life. And yet it seemed so hopeless.
Supposing he threw up his work and let things take their course? The
bare thought chilled him. He recognised it as unworthy. The great song
of mortification from the broken hero rang in his ears. Must every woman
bring to every man the curse of Delilah!...

He passed out of the building into t