On rising Arthur saw it and picked it up. He read it without apology, and as he did so his face set. Then he politely handed it to his guest, saying,—
"I must beg your pardon, this is evidently your property!"
Lancelot did not speak, but sank back in his chair while the other continued,—"This is really a most unfortunate affair; and so my wife is about to dishonour my name, in order to devote herself more exclusively to the care of your health?"
"The fault is mine," stammered Lancelot, "only mine!"
"My dear fellow, not at all. Judging from that letter, she is in love with you—possibly she is right. We won't argue that matter. She seems fond of playing the rôle of St. Mary Magdala."
"What do you mean to do?"
"Turn her out of my house to-night, or settle the matter with you!"
"Settle with me; but for God's sake spare her!"
"Very well! Let us discuss the question quietly. As you know, I do not believe in what is called sentiment, and fortunately I am able to say, with a clear conscience, that I am not in love with my wife. Probably if I were, I should act otherwise. Now, what I propose is, that chance shall decide for us whether my wife leaves Australia, as she suggests, with you, or whether you go alone concealing your destination and promising never to communicate in any way with her again. Both are unpleasant alternatives, but my gain is, that in either case I shall be rid of you!"
"Good God, man, what an unholy arrangement! Supposing I refuse?"