his respect,
his devotion, and his delicacy. She would be in his society: she would
understand the true meaning of this respect and delicacy: she would
appreciate the depth of his devotion: she would contrast Hugh, the man
she might have married, with himself, the man she did marry.

And the house was wretched without her; and he hated the sight of the
doctor--desperate and reckless.

He resolved to write to Iris: he sat down and poured out his heart, but
not his conscience, to her.

"As for our separation," he said, "I, and only I, am to blame. It is my
own abominable conduct that has caused it. Give me your pardon, dearest
Iris. If I have made it impossible for you to live with me, it is also
impossible for me to live without you. So am I punished. The house is
dull and lonely; the hours crawl, I know not how to kill the time; my
life is a misery and a burden because you are not with me. Yet I have
no right to complain; I ought to rejoice in thinking that you are happy
in being relieved of my presence. My dear, I do not ask you to come at
present"--he remembered, indeed, that her arrival at this juncture
might be seriously awkward--"I cannot ask you to come back yet, but let
me have a little hope--let me feel that in the sweetness of your nature
you will believe in my repentance, and let me look forward to a speedy
reunion in the future."

When he had written this letter, which he would have done better to
keep in his own hands for awhile, he directed it in a feigned hand to
Lady Harry Norland, care of Hugh Mountjoy, at the latter's London
hotel. Mountjoy would not know Iris's correspondent, and would
certainly forward the letter. He calculated--with the knowledge of her
affectionate and impulsive nature--that Iris would meet him half-way,
and would return whenever he should be able to call her back. He did
not calculate, as will be seen, on the step which she actually took.

The letter despatched, he came back to the cottage happier--he would
get his wife again. He looked in at the sick-room. The patient was
sitting up, chatting pleasantly; it was the best day he had known; the
doctor was sitting in a chair placed beside the bed, and the nurse
stood quiet, self-composed, but none the less watchful and suspicious.

"You are going on so well, my man," Doctor Vimpany was saying, "That we
shall have you out and about again in a day or two. Not quite yet,
though--not quite yet," he pulled out his stethoscope and mad