n for you."

"Men like you and me, Stanistreet, contrive to get hold of the wrong
woman; I don't know why."

"You must know that your marriage did nothing for you that was not very
well done before."

"Yes. It seems to me that there was a time when I had an immortal
soul. That was before the Framley episode. You remember? An edifying
experience."

Stanistreet assented. He knew the horrible story, of a mad boy and a bad
woman. Perhaps it accounted for the ugliest facts in Tyson's character.
He was warped from his youth, the bitter, premature manhood, so soon
corrupt.

"That woman was possessed of seven distinct devils, and amongst them they
didn't leave much of my immortal soul. And you hear men talk of their
'first love.' Good God!"

Stanistreet shrugged his shoulders. He had not met these men. But there
could be no doubt that if any of Tyson's loves could be called his first,
he would have talked freely enough about it. No subject was too sacred
or too vile for his unbridled tongue. He continued to talk.

"After all, at my worst, I never did as much harm to any woman as that
Framley fiend did to me. I suppose I had my revenge; but that was
Nature's justice, not mine. Right or wrong, I obeyed the law of the
cosmos. And for the life of me I don't see why I should bother about it."

If it had not been for Mrs. Nevill Tyson, Stanistreet might have been
faintly amused at the idea of this little cockney cosmopolitan persuading
himself that his contemptible vices were part of the pageant of the
world. As it was he was disgusted. He, too, was a sinner in all
conscience; but his sins and his repentance had been alike simple and
sincere. He had none of the pendantry of vice.

"If you ask me," he said, "what did for you was that low trick of the
old man Tyson when he left you his respectability. A property you really
could not be expected to manage. _That_ was your ruin, if you like."

Tyson looked up. His drowning conscience snatched at straws. "It was.
I've thought as much myself. But that doesn't square my account. I lied
when I said my marriage was a mistake. It was not a mistake. It was
a crime committed against the dearest, sweetest woman that ever lived."

"You mean--?" It was hard to tell what Tyson meant when he went off into
reminiscences. And for the moment Stanistreet's vision was obscured by a
painful memory. Three years ago a woman had come to his rooms and asked
for Tyson. She sat in that chair opposit