“Very well,” he answered, “I will come back for you.” She watched him go down the stairs, she listened while he opened the street door and closed it—to his footsteps growing fainter along the pavement outside; then she went back into the little drawing-room and shut herself in, and put her head down on the lumpy sofa-cushion and sobbed with the bitter disappointment and hopelessness that had suddenly opened itself out before her.
CHAPTER II.
ix months later. Walter was back in England, better in health, brown and handsome. Florence was in a seventh heaven of happiness. Her husband was her very devoted lover; the children were as good as gold; the little house near Regent’s Park was decorated with all manner of Indian draperies and bric-à-brac—what more could the heart of woman desire?
“Really,” she said, “it was worth your going away to know the delight of getting you back again.”
“Yes, darling; shall I go away again?”
“No, you dear stupid! Walter, why doesn’t Mr. Fisher come and see us? He has only been once since you returned, and then he seemed most anxious to go away again.”