" "Rather behind me;" and he spoke no more that morning. Let’s go on climbing now. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. . To-night all London believes that he was your husband. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. Only you good ones— shirk. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. She was nearly dead. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. \"You cannot know how frustrated I have become.
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