ne thing he could do in order to
preserve, if not his reason, at any rate his moral equilibrium in the
position which he had contrived for himself. To tell him this had been
my object in seeking the interview, and the blessed opportunity only
came after an hour's hard wrangle--in current metaphor after an hour's
artillery preparation for attack. He looked so battered, poor old
Anthony, that I felt almost ashamed of the success of my bombardment.

"It's not a question of suggesting," said I. "It's a question of things
that have to be done. You need a holiday. You've been working here at
high pressure for nearly a couple of years. Go away. Put yourself in
the hands of Cliffe, and go to Bournemouth, or Biarritz, or Bahia, or
any beastly place you can fix up with him to go to. Go frankly For
three or four months. Go to-morrow. As soon as you're well out of the
place, tell Edith the whole story. Then you can take counsel and
comfort together."

He was in the state of mind to be impressed by my argument. I followed
up my advantage. I undertook to send a ruthless flaming angel of a
Cliffe to pronounce the inexorable decree of exile. After a few
faint-hearted objections he acquiesced in the scheme. I fancy he
revolted against even this apparent surrender to Gedge, although he was
too proud to confess it. No man likes running away. Sir Anthony also
regarded as pusillanimous the proposal to leave his wife in ignorance
until he had led her into the trap of holiday. Why not put her into his
confidence before they started?

"That," said I, "is a delicate question which only you yourself can
decide. By following my plan you get away at once, which is the most
important thing. Once comfortably away, you can choose the opportune
moment."

"There's something in that," he replied; and, after thanking me for my
advice, he left me.

I do not defend my plan. I admit it was Machiavellian. My one desire
was to remove these two dear people from Wellingsford for a season.
Just think of the horrible impossibility of their maintaining social
relations with the Boyces ....

By publicly honouring Boyce, Sir Anthony had tied his own hands. It was
a pledge to Boyce, although the latter did not know it, of condonation.
Whatever stories Gedge might spread abroad, whatever proofs he might
display, Sir Anthony could take no action. But to carry on a semblance
of friendship with the man responsible for his daughter's death--for
the two of them, mi