nd
over whose tired face came a bright smile at the sight of Jim.

"Hello!" said Richie, taking an opposite chair. His expression grew
solicitous at the sight of Jim's haggard face. "Headache, old boy?" he
asked sympathetically.

Jim shook his head. The big room was almost dark now, and they had it
quite to themselves.

"Thinking what a rotten mess I've made of everything, Rich," Jim said
desperately.

Richie took out a handkerchief and wiped the palms of his hands, but did
not answer.

"She'll never forgive me, I know that," Jim presently said. And as
Richie was again silent, he added: "Do you think she ever will?"

"I don't know," poor Richie said hesitatingly. "She's awfully
kind--Julia."

"She's an angel!" Jim agreed fervently. He sat with his head in his
hands for a few moments. Then he cleared his throat and said huskily:
"Look here, you know, Rich, I'm not such an utter damn fool as I seem in
this whole business. I can't explain, and, looking back now, it all
seems different; but I had a grievance, or thought I had--God knows it
wasn't awfully pleasant for me to go away. But I _had_ a reason."

"It wasn't anything you didn't know about before you were married, I
suppose?" asked Richie, with what Jim thought unearthly prescience.

"No," Jim answered, with a startled look.

"Nor anything you'd particularly care to have the world know or
suspect?" pursued Richie. "Not anything Julia could change?"

"No," Jim said again. Richard leaned back in his chair.

"Some scrap with her people, or some old friends she wanted to hang on
to," he mused. Jim did not speak. "Well," said Richie, "there would be
plenty of people glad to be near Julia on any terms."

"Oh, I know that," Jim said. And after a moment he burst out again:
"Richie, am I all wrong? Is it _all_ on my side?"

"Lord, don't ask me," Richie said hastily. "The older I grow the less I
think I know about anything."

There was a silence. Richard clamped the arms of his chair with big bony
fingers and frowned thoughtfully at the floor.

"I wish to God I did know what to advise you, Jim," he said presently.
"I'd die for her--she knows that. But she's rare, Julia; it's like
trying to deal with some delicate frail little lady out of Cranford,
like trying to guess what Emily Bronte might like, or Eugenie de Guerin!
Julia's got life sized up, she likes it--I don't know whether this
conveys anything to you or not!--but she likes it as much as if it was
p