“I dont think it mean to leave you, not a bit of it.  Any other man would have left you months ago.  If I had married that little fool inside there, and she had taken to drink, I wouldnt have stood it a week.  I have stood it from you nearly a year.  Can you expect me to stay under the same roof with you, with the very thought of you making me sick and angry?  I was looking at some of your old likenesses the other day; and I declare that it is enough to make a man cry to look at your face now and listen to your voice.  When you used to lecture me for losing a twenty pound note at billiards, and coming home half screwed—­no man shall ever see me drunk again—­I little thought which of us would be the first to go to the dogs.”

“I shall not trouble you long.”

“What is the use of harping on that?  I have seen you drunk so often that I should almost be glad to see you dead.”

“Stop!” said Susanna, rising.  “All right:  you need say no more.  Talking will not remedy matters; and it makes me feel pretty much as if you were throwing big stones at my heart.  Youre in the right, I suppose:  I’ve chosen to make a beast of myself, and I must take the consequences.  You can have the child.  I will send for my things:  you wont see me at Laurel Grove again.  Good-bye.”

“But——­”

“Dont say another word, Bob.  Good-bye.”  He took her hand irresolutely.  She drew it quickly away; nodded to him; and went out, whilst he stood wondering whether it would be safe—­seeing that he did not desire a reconciliation—­to kiss her good-bye.

CHAPTER XIV

On Sunday afternoon Douglas walked, facing a glorious sunset, along Uxbridge Road to Holland Park, where he found Mrs. Conolly, Miss McQuinch, and Marmaduke.  A little girl was playing in the garden.  They were all so unconstrained, and so like their old selves, that Douglas at once felt that Conolly was absent.

“I am to make Ned’s excuses,” said Marian.  “He has some pressing family affairs to arrange.”  She seemed about to explain further; but Marmaduke looked so uneasily at her that she stopped.  Then, resuming gaily, she added, “I told Ned that he need not stand on ceremony with you.  Fancy my saying that of you, the most punctilious of men!”

“Quite right.  I am glad that Mr. Conolly has not suffered me to interfere with his movements,” he replied, with a smile, which he suppressed as he turned and greeted Miss McQuinch with his usual cold composure.  But to Marmaduke, who seemed much cast down, he gave an encouraging squeeze of the hand.  Not that he was moved by the misfortunes of Marmaduke; but he was thawed by the beauty of Marian.

“We shall have a pleasant evening,” continued Marian.  “Let us fancy ourselves back at Westbourne Terrace again.  Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.  Let us think that it is one of our old Sunday afternoons.  Sholto had better go upstairs and shave, to heighten the illusion.”