Time had crept on since the return of the Jerrolds, and by degrees the pain of the meeting between Myra and Stratton grew less, and the wound made that day began to heal.

“I’m sorry for him,” Guest would say to himself; “but I can’t keep away because he is unhappy.”

So he visited at the admiral’s, where he always found a warm welcome, but made little progress with Edie, who seemed to have grown cold.

Then, too, he met the cousins at Miss Jerrold’s, and it naturally came about that one evening, after a good deal of persuasion, Stratton became his companion.

Myra was there that night, and once more their hands were clasped, while Stratton felt that it was no longer the girl into whose eyes he looked, but the quiet, thoughtful woman who had suffered in the struggle of life, and that he must banish all hope of a nearer tie than that of friendship.

For whatever Myra may have held hidden in her secret heart she was the calm, self-contained friend to her aunt’s guest. Ready to sit and talk with him of current topics and their travels; to play or sing if asked; but Stratton always left the house with the feeling that unconsciously Myra had gravely impressed upon him the fact that she was James Barron’s wife, and that she would never seek to rid herself of that tie.

“And I must accept that position.” Stratton would say despairingly, after one of the meetings which followed; and then he would make a vow never to meet Myra again, for the penance was too painful to be borne.

The result was that the very next day after making one of these vows he received a letter from Edie, asking him, at her uncle’s wish, to dinner in Bourne Square.

For the admiral had said to Edie, on hearing that they had met Stratton at her aunt’s:

“Let bygones be bygones. I don’t see why we should not all be friends again. I always liked the boy. He can talk well about scientific things without boring you. Ask him to dinner.”

“Uncle wants him to come and wean poor Myra from that terrible business.”

But Edie was wrong, for after approaching his daughter several times on the question of the possibility of obtaining a divorce, Myra had stopped the admiral so decidedly that he had been ready to believe she must have cared for Barron after all.

“First man who ever told her he loved her,” the old man said to himself, “so, of course, she can’t help feeling a kind of liking for him. But suppose he comes out on ticket-of-leave, don’t they call it? And what if he comes here? Bah! I’ll shoot him before he shall have her. That would bring Myra to book, too. That’s a card I must play—possibility of his coming back. She’ll give in, then. I must hear what a lawyer says.”

But, in his unbusinesslike way, Sir Mark did nothing. Home was calm and pleasant again, and he had his little dinners, and his friends; and to him the existence of James Barron, alias Dale, at The Foreland became less and less clear. He was buried, as it were, in a living tomb, and there was no need to think of him for years.

Stratton came again and again for dinner, and now and then dropped in of an evening. Always against his will, he told himself; but the attraction was strong enough to draw him there. It was plain, too, that Myra’s eyes brightened when he entered, but he felt that it was only to see her father’s friend.

Then came one autumn night when, after a long and busy day, Stratton made up his mind to go to Bourne Square, undid it, made up his mind again, once more undid it, and determined that he would no longer play the moth round the bright candle.

He had dressed, and, throwing off his light coat and crush hat, he went out of his rooms and along the landing to Brettison’s.

“I’ll go and talk botany,” he said. “Life is too valuable to waste upon a heartless woman.”

He knocked; no answer. Again; no reply.

“Gone out,” he said. “What shall I do?”

Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then went and fetched his hat and coat, descended, took a cab, and ordered the man to drive to Guest’s, in Grey’s Inn.

“Better have stopped at home,” muttered Stratton; “he will talk about nothing else but Bourne Square.” But he was wrong. Guest was out, so descen............