to which he could not
climb, and to which Meredith was soaring--Meredith, a man he could have
taken in his own hands and broken; a cheat, armed with every weapon that
culture could forge, and little else.

In the evening he summoned up his failing courage and went to Angela's
house. It was one blaze of light and one tumult of sound. A dapper footman
opened the door and took his card. He waited in the hall, running his eyes
over the rich decorations. From higher up the hall came sounds of revelry,
and now and again he caught sight of figures flitting to and fro. The
sound of a string band drifted down to him, and then laughter--cultured,
high-toned laughter that grated on his nerves.

When eventually he was shown into the drawing-room, he wished he hadn't
come. Angela was one blaze of glory. Her guests bowed to him in a fashion
that was intended, and succeeded, to make their superiority felt. Angela
was cool and remarkably self-possessed.

"I was passing and jest dropped in," he explained.

"That was very nice of you. Will you take anything to drink?"

He shook his head negatively. He only wanted to get away from these
people. They were too polite to whisper to each other, but their silence
was eloquent enough. They were laughing in their sleeves at this
unfortunate husband. A figure dawdled up, and bowing, took Angela's arm
with a smirking smile. It was Meredith.

It was a pleasure to breathe the fresher air outside. Jim caught the next
train to Devonshire, feeling like a dog that has been kicked by its
mistress. He arrived home to find a pile of bills--debts incurred by
Angela--awaiting him. He glared at them, half inclined to return them and
repudiate responsibility. But he didn't. He wrote numerous checks for
considerable sums and sent them away.

"What a pace! But it's got to stop. God, why can't I get a holt on myself.
Jim, you ain't a man. They're putting you through your paces like a
circus dog, and you're taking it all lying down."

He jammed on his hat and went striding out into the country.

CHAPTER VII

THE CLIMAX

The months passed and a New Year was ushered in. The lonely man at Little
Badholme wondered what it held for him. He had seen Angela only once since
the evening when he had called on her. She was riding in the Row with
Meredith. She had not seen Jim, but Meredith had, and smiled to himself as
though he was pleasantly conscious of the pangs he gave the former.

It was after br