had ever been satisfied with their present success.  Had it brought her all she expected?  She wanted to say this to her husband, not only to comfort him, poor fellow, but that they might come to a better understanding of life in the future.  She was not perhaps different from other loving women who, believing in this unattainable goal of matrimony, have sought it in the various episodes of fortune or reverses, in the bearing of children, or the loss of friends.  In her childless experience there was no other life that had taken root in her circumstances and might suffer transplantation; only she and her husband could lose or profit by the change.  The “perfect” understanding would come under other conditions than these.

She would have gone superstitiously to the window to gaze in the direction of the vanished ship, but another instinct restrained her.  She would put aside all yearning for him until she had done something to help him, and earned the confidence he seemed to have withheld.  Perhaps it was pride—­perhaps she never really believed his exodus was distant or complete.

With a full knowledge that to-morrow the various ornaments and pretty trifles around her would be in the hands of the law, she gathered only a few necessaries for her flight and some familiar personal trinkets.  I am constrained to say that this self-abnegation was more fastidious than moral.  She had no more idea of the ethics of bankruptcy than any other charming woman; she simply did not like to take with her any contagious memory of the chapter of the life just closing.  She glanced around the home she was leaving without a lingering regret; there was no sentiment of tradition or custom that might be destroyed; her roots lay too near the surface to suffer from dislocation; the happiness of her childless union had depended upon no domestic centre, nor was its flame sacred to any local hearthstone.  It was without a sigh that, when night had fully fallen, she slipped unnoticed down the staircase.  At the door of the drawing-room she paused and then entered with the first guilty feeling of shame she had known that evening.  Looking stealthily around she mounted a chair before her husband’s picture, kissed the irreproachable moustache hurriedly, said, “You foolish darling, you!” and slipped out again.  With this touching indorsement of the views of a rival philosopher, she closed the door softly and left her home forever.

CHAPTER II

The wind and rain had cleared the unfrequented suburb of any observant lounger, and the darkness, lit only by far-spaced, gusty lamps, hid her hastening figure.  She had barely crossed the second street when she heard the quick clatter of hoofs behind her; a buggy drove up to the curbstone, and Poindexter leaped out.  She entered quickly, but for a moment he still held the reins of the impatient horse.  “He’s rather fresh,” he said, eying her keenly; “are you sure you can manage him?”