ered down to Johnson in his
study. There, in perfect confidence, she revealed to him the Canon's
revelations.

Johnson betrayed no surprise. That story had been going the round of his
club for the last two years.

"What will Anne do?" said Mrs. Eliott, "when she finds out?"

"I don't suppose she'll do anything."

"Will she get a separation, do you think?"

"How can I tell you?"

"I wonder if she knows."

"She's not likely to tell you, if she does."

"She's bound to know, sooner or later. I wonder if one ought to prepare
her?"

"Prepare her for what?"

"The shock of it. I'm afraid of her hearing in some horrid way. It would
be so awful, if she didn't know."

"It can't be pleasant, any way, my dear."

"Do advise me, Johnson. Ought I or ought I not to tell her?"

Mr. Eliott's face told how his nature shrank from the agony of decision.
But he was touched by her distress.

"Certainly not. Much better let well alone."

"If I were only sure that it _was_ well I was letting alone."

"Can't be sure of anything. Give it the benefit of the doubt."

"Yes--but if you were I?"

"If I were you I should say nothing."

"That only means that I should say nothing if I were you. But I'm not."

"Be thankful, my dear, at any rate, for that."

He took up a book, _The Search for Stellar Parallaxes_, a book that he
understood and that his wife could not understand. That book was the sole
refuge open to him when pressed for an opinion. He knew that, when she
saw him reading it, she would realise that he was her intellectual
master.

The front doorbell announced the arrival of another caller.

She went away, wondering, as he meant she should, whether he were so very
undecided, after all. Certainly his indecisions closed a subject more
effectually than other people's verdicts.

She found Anne in the empty, half-dark drawing-room waiting for her. She
had chosen the darkest corner, and the darkest hour.

"Fanny," she said, and her voice trembled, "are you alone? Can I speak to
you a moment?"

"Yes, dear, yes. Just let me leave word with Mason that I'm not at home.
But no one will come now."

In the interval she heard Anne struggling with the sob that had choked
her voice. She felt that the decision had been made for her. The terrible
task had been taken out of her hands. Anne knew.

She sat down beside her friend and put her hand on her shoulder. In that
moment poor Fanny's intellectual vanities dropped from her,