"There is one rather nice fellow here—a Captain Bauer, who has been really decent to me and taken me about. He has rich relations with some style about them—if you only knew what an oasis 'style' is in this desert!—and I fancy they mean to give Nora and myself a good time. Wolff tries not to show how wild he is about it, though why he should mind I have no idea. Besides that, I have run up against some nice English fellows, and when I can't stand things and feel in need of a square meal, I go out with them and have a run round. In any case I shall remain, for Nora's sake. At the bottom, I believe she is wishing herself well out of the mess, and so I shall stay as long as possible to help her."
In answer to this description of Nora's home life, the Rev. John wrote to his daughter an epistle fulminating in grief, reproaches, sympathy, and advice. Let it be said in praise of his epistolary abilities, that without ever getting as far as "I told you so!" he implied that sentence at least once on every one of the eight closely written sheets.
"My poor child!" he wrote at the close. "I cannot tell you how this revelation has shocked and grieved me. Alas! I can hardly call it revelation, for did not my father's instinct prophesy everything as it has come to pass? I cannot but admire your noble silence, your generous concealment of the true facts of your life. I can understand how you wish to shield your husband from all reproach, and I am the last one to attempt to turn you from your duty to him. Nevertheless, I beseech you, give us your whole confidence. Let us help you to bear your burden, and if it should grow too heavy, remember that your home awaits you and that your father's arms are always open."
Mrs. Ingestre had added a brief note to this long oration. The handwriting was less firm than of old, as though it had cost an effort, but the short, concise sentences were full of strength and insight.
"Do you still love each other?" she asked. "For if you still love your husband and he still loves you, I need offer neither sympathy nor pity. You are to be envied, and I pray only that you will let no one—not even those dearest to you—come between you and your great happiness. If Miles is stupid and troubles you, send him home."
This little note was first wept over and then hidden away in a secret drawer, but the letter went to the flames, thrown there by an angry, indignant hand.
"How dare he!" Nora thought in a passion of resentment. "How dare any one pity me!"
And she sat down in that same hour and wrote home a protest and a defence which, it is to be feared, was often incoherent and still more often lacking in respect. But her intention was clear. It was condensed in the closing sentences:
"No one has the right to criticise my husband or my house. I love them both, and for me they are the most perfect in the world. Those who really love me will do well to remember this and spare me both advice and misplaced sympathy."
After which this declaration of war, she went out to meet Wolff and greeted him with a delight and tenderness which was almost feverish, almost too marked. It was as though she were saying to herself: "See how much I love him! And if I love him nothing else can matter."