plainly. I came out of my study upon the landing when I heard the
turmoil of her arrival below, and she came upstairs with a quickened
gladness. It was a cold March, and she was dressed in unfamiliar
dark furs that suited her extremely and reinforced the delicate
flush of her sweet face. She held out both her hands to me, and
drew me to her unhesitatingly and kissed me.
"So glad you are back, dear," she said. "Oh! so very glad you are
back."
I returned her kiss with a queer feeling at my heart, too
undifferentiated to be even a definite sense of guilt or meanness.
I think it was chiefly amazement-at the universe-at myself.
"I never knew what it was to be away from you," she said.
I perceived suddenly that she had resolved to end our estrangement.
She put herself so that my arm came caressingly about her.
"These are jolly furs," I said.
"I got them for you."
The parlourmaid appeared below dealing with the maid and the luggage
cab.
"Tell me all about America," said Margaret. "I feel as though you'd
been away six year's."
We went arm in arm into our little sitting-room, and I took off the
fur's for her and sat down upon the chintz-covered sofa by the fire.
She had ordered tea, and came and sat by me. I don't know what I
had expected, but of all things I had certainly not expected this
sudden abolition of our distances.
"I want to know all about America," she repeated, with her eyes
scrutinising me. "Why did you come back?"
I repeated the substance of my letters rather lamely, and she sat
listening.
"But why did you turn back-without going to Denver?"
"I wanted to come back. I was restless."
"Restlessness," she said, and thought. "You were restless in
Venice. You said it was restlessness took you to America."
Again she studied me. She turned a little awkwardly to her tea
things, and poured needless water from the silver kettle into the
teapot. Then she sat still for some moments looking at the equipage
with expressionless eyes. I saw her hand upon the edge of the table
tremble slightly. I watched her closely. A vague uneasiness
possessed me. What might she not know or guess?
She spoke at last with an effort. "I wish you were in Parliament
again," she said. "Life doesn't give you events enough."
"If I was in Parliament again, I should be on the Conservative
side."
"I know," she said, and was still more thoughtful.
"Lately," she began, and paused. "Lately I've been reading-you."
I didn't help her out with what she had to say. I waited.
"I didn't understand what you were after. I had misjudged. I
didn't know. I think perhaps I was rather stupid." Her eyes were
suddenly shining with tears. "You didn't give me much chance to
She turned upon me suddenly with a voice full of tears.
"Husband," she said abruptly, holding her two hands out to me, "I
want to begin over again!"
I took her hands, perplexed beyond measure. "My dear!" I said.
"I want to begin over again."
I bowed my head to hide my face, and found her hand in mine and
kissed it.
"Ah!" she said, and slowly withdrew her hand. She leant forward
with her arm on the sofa-back, and looked very intently into my
face. I felt the most damnable scoundrel in the world as I returned
her gaze. The thought of Isabel's darkly shining eyes seemed like a
physical presence between us…
"Tell me," I said presently, to break the intolerable tension, "tell
me plainly what you mean by this."
I sat a little away from her, and then took my teacup in hand, with
an odd effect of defending myself. "Have you been reading that old
book of mine?" I asked.
"That and the paper. I took a complete set from the beginning down
to Durham with me. I have read it over, thought it over. I didn't
understand-what you were teaching."
There was a little pause.
"It all seems so plain to me now," she said, "and so true."
I was profoundly disconcerted. I put down my teacup, stood up in
the middle of the hearthrug, and began talking. "I'm tremendously
glad, Margaret, that you've come to seeI'm not altogether
perverse," I began. I launched out into a rather trite and windy
exposition of my views, and she sat close to me on the sofa, looking
up into my face, hanging on my words, a deliberate and invincible
convert.
"Yes," she said, "yes."…
I had never doubted my new conceptions before; now I doubted them
profoundly. But I went on talking. It's the grim irony in the
lives of all politicians, writers, public teachers, that once the
audience is at their feet, a new loyalty has gripped them. It isn't
their business to admit doubt and imperfections. They have to go on
talking. And I was now so accustomed to Isabel's vivid interruptions,