adjoining, with doors locked, Arthur paced the floor. He had spent the
first half of the night in an agonizing interview with his wife, and the
second half in writing and rewriting the letter to Leonard.

Now Isabel noticed the cessation of his steps. In the door between
them the key turned; then the door opened, and he stood, haggard and
dishevelled, gazing on her. She sat up in the bed, wan, tear-spent,
her glorious hair falling over the embroideries of her nightdress.

"Arthur, dear, I am sorry for every angry word I have spoken. But the
things I have denied I must deny forever.

"If you should wait till doomsday, I could confess no more.

"I have never harbored one throb of unworthy or unsafe regard toward any
man in this wide world.

"For me to say differently would be to lie in God's own face.

"I have had great happiness of Leonard's companionship, and I have been
proud to be myself a proof that a man and a woman can be close, dear,
daily friends without being lovers or kin, and earth be only more like
heaven for it, to them and all theirs. If Leonard has confessed one word
more than that for me,--or even for himself, Arthur, dearest,--he has
lost his reason. It's a frightful explanation, but I find no other.

"Leonard Byington is not wicked, and if he were he wouldn't be so in a
dastard's way.

"Never since the day I first plighted my faith to you, dear heart, has