"Distraction of some sort is absolutely necessary for your case," the doctor explained as gravely as a judge. "There is nothing to be startled at—you've been married before"—Floriot winced—"you can do so again. A lonely life is not the life for you. Look out for a happy-minded woman, who will keep you young and be a mother to your child, and marry her. I have an idea," he smiled knowingly, "that you won't have much difficulty in finding the very woman!"
In a flash the young lawyer saw what was in his friend's mind. He saw, too, that he must make him a confidant—tell him a story that he had sworn should never be put into words. For almost a minute emotion held him tongue-tied.
Then he said brokenly:
"My friend, I see now that I ought to—I ought to have—told you before. I—am not a widower!"
Dr. Chennel fell back against the table astounded.
"Not a widower!" he gasped.
"My wife is living," said Floriot in a low, unsteady voice. "After three years of married life—she left me—with a lover. I came home unexpectedly one day—and found them—together. They rushed out of the house in terror. I should have killed them both, I think, if they had not run."
The doctor murmured something meant to be sympathetic. He was too much amazed for speech.
"I have sometimes thought of telling you, but, somehow, I could not talk of it. Chennel, old man!" he cried, miserably, laying his hand on his friend's arm, "you can't guess how horribly unhappy I am!"
"Then—you—you love her still?" asked the doctor, gently. Floriot bowed his head to conceal the agony written on his face and threw up a hand in a gesture of despair.