"What can I do?" she pleaded.
"Remain firm in principle, dear Susan. Whatever happens, stand true to him and to yourself. Do that, and all will be well."
The crying of her child, which was sick, called her away. I sought Pendlam's study. I found him busily writing. He was pale and thin, and there was a wild brightness in his eye which did not please me.
"You, of all men!" he exclaimed. "Sit down." He closed the door, with an air of mystery. "I was just writing to you."
"To me? Then I have saved you the trouble of employing a messenger."
"Susan would be mortified and incensed, if she knew what I am about to say. But truth is truth. She is perishing; I see new evidence of it every day. It is for want of magnetisms. I have little to give her, and what I have is not such as she requires. Do not be astonished when I tell you I have discovered that there do not exist between us the requisite affinities."
I smiled; for Pendlam was continually announcing discoveries of facts I had discovered long before.
"You see where I am," said Pendlam. "I am compelled to go to other women for the magnetisms I need; she must receive what she requires from other men."
"That is interesting," I replied. "What is the peculiar process of imparting these magnetisms?"
"Sometimes by conversation,—sometimes by the contact of hands,—perhaps by a kiss; no rule is laid down; the process must depend upon the kind of magnetism to be imparted."