that nocturnal fashion; he would prefer admittance publicly, in the eye of all, as one with nothing to conceal, with no black shame upon him. His return should be ordinary, matter-of-fact; he would choose that Jackson should see him cool and unperturbed. In some way, too, he vaguely hoped to cajole his memory, and to ensnare his willing mind into a belief that nothing unusual had happened.
He knocked with a loud clatter, feet sounded in the hall, and the door fell open. Jackson looked at him with no appearance of surprise.
"Good morning, Jackson," he said, kicking his feet against the step. He entered, and laid his umbrella in the stand. "Is your mistress up yet?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," said the servant, placidly; "she's in the morning-room, sir, I think."
There was no emotion in the man's voice; his face wore no aspect of suspicion or inquiry, and somehow Farrell felt already relieved. To-day was as yesterday, unmarked by any grave event.
"Ah!" he said, and passed down the hall. At the foot of the stairs he paused again, with a pretence of dusting something from his coat, and winced at the white gleam of his dress-shirt. Nothing stirred in the house save a maid brushing overhead, and for a while he lingered. He still shrank from encountering his wife, and there was his room for refuge until he had put on a quieter habit of mind. His clothes damned him so loudly that all the world must guess at a glance. And then again the man resumed his manliness; he would not browbeat himself for the mere knowledge of his own shame; and, passing rapidly along the hall, he pushed open the door of the morning-room.
A woman rose on his entrance, with a happy little cry.
"George!" she said, Dear George, I'm so glad."
She
