"It's I--Monty," said a voice.

Clutching the bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch of the

light hanging above her dressing-table. He appeared just on the rim

of the light's circumference, emblazoned from the absence of his

watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, but--yes!--split at the

toecap. His chest and face were shadowy. Surely he was thin--or was it a

trick of the light? He advanced, lighted now from toe-cap to the top of

his dark head--surely a little grizzled! His complexion had darkened,

sallowed; his black moustache had lost boldness, become sardonic; there

were lines which she did not know about his face. There was no pin in

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his tie. His suit--ah!--she knew that--but how unpressed, unglossy! She

stared again at the toe-cap of his boot. Something big and relentless

had been 'at him,' had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him. And

she stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at that crack across the

toe.

"Well!" he said, "I got the order. I'm back."

Winifred's bosom began to heave. The nostalgia for her husband which had

rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper jealousy than any

she had felt yet. There he was--a dark, and as if harried, shadow of

his sleek and brazen self! What force had done this to him--squeezed him

like an orange to its dry rind! That woman!

"I'm back," he said again. "I've had a beastly time. By God! I came

steerage. I've got nothing but what I stand up in, and that bag."

"And who has the rest?" cried Winifred, suddenly alive. "How dared you

come? You knew it was just for divorce that you got that order to come

back. Don't touch me!"

They held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so many

years of nights together. Many times, yes--many times she had wanted him

back. But now that he had come she was filled with this cold and deadly

resentment. He put his hand up to his moustache; but did not frizz and

twist it in the old familiar way, he just pulled it downwards.

"Gad!" he said: "If you knew the time I've had!"

"I'm glad I don't!"

"Are the kids all right?"

Winifred nodded. "How did you get in?"

"With my key."

"Then the maids don't know. You can't stay here, Monty."

He uttered a little sardonic laugh.

"Where then?"

"Anywhere."

"Well, look at me! That--that damned...."

"If you mention her," cried Winifred, "I go straight out to Park Lane

and I don't come back."

Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it moved

her. He shut his eyes. It was as if he had said: 'All right! I'm dead to

the world!'




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