Twenty minutes later he threw away the novel impatiently. Midway, the
story had gone to pieces. He rose from his feet, intending this time to
tackle his neglected duties in earnest. As he did so, he heard a motor
climbing the steep drive, and in front of it a lady, walking.

He stood arrested--in a stupor of astonishment.

Doris!--by all the gods!--_Doris_!

It was indeed Doris. She came wearily, looking from side to side, like
one uncertain of her way. Then she too perceived Meadows, and stopped.

Meadows was conscious of two mixed feelings--first, a very lively
pleasure at the sight of her, and then annoyance. What on earth had she
come for? To recover him?--to protest against his not writing?--to make
a scene, in short? His guilty imagination in a flash showed her to him
throwing herself into his arms--weeping--on this wide lawn--for all the
world to see.

But she did nothing of the kind. She directed the motor, which was
really a taxi from the station, to stop without approaching the front
door, and then she herself walked quickly towards her husband.

"Arthur!--you got my letter? I could only write yesterday."

She had reached him, and they had joined hands mechanically.

"Letter?--I got no letter! If you posted one, it has probably arrived
by your train. What on earth, Doris, is the meaning of this? Is there
anything wrong?"