She pulled out from beneath the bed her old-fashioned leather trunk and began to pack such clothes as she meant to take with her.
He sat down wearily to the books, checking them mechanically, while his mind was almost numb. He had never hesitated in his faith; it was not in him to do so; but never before had he felt so helpless. Prayer had brought softness to his anger, but as yet there was no light on the dark path ahead.
Before he left the house he went upstairs again, but, as before, obtained no answer to his knocking. From sheer habit he wrapped himself up closely, and, taking the books, went out.
Marian heard the door shut behind him, and knew that it closed on her married life.
This same day Maddison worked until the light failed, early in the afternoon, and then stood before the fire in the darkening studio, undetermined.
Marian’s intrusion into his life had rendered him dissatisfied, made him at one moment feverishly anxious for activity, at another full of longing for solitude and silence. As it chanced, the first was his present mood, but he had no engagement and did not know where to go or what to do.
It was only four o’clock. He could pay a visit to one or other of the many friends who would meet him with quick welcome, but this prosaic prospect did not allure him, nor did an afternoon of gossip or argument at the club.
It occurred to him to go and see Marian, but he resisted the insistent temptation. She had thrown him over without a word, either not wanting to see him, or wishing him to woo her; both pride and wisdom told him that he had best leave the next move to her. But if she made no move? Were there not other women equally desirable! Another Marian?
The ringing of the telephone bell broke in on his thoughts. The call was from Mortimer.
“I’m laid up with a sprained ankle. Can you come round for a chat? I’ve no woman for you—only tea.”
A hansom bore him down quickly to the Adelphi, where Mortimer lived in a snug set of chambers overlooking the river. Maddison found him stretched out on the sofa before the fire, reading a prettily-bound, daintily-illustrated, wittily-written volume of French essays on cookery.
“Good man!” he exclaimed. “Come round to the fire. I’ve had a most lucky accident which will prevent me being able to go to the office this abominable weather and will get me out of several engagements I don’t want to keep.”