H. Wells: THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

trying to evade the cold blast of the truth. I had betrayed my

party, my intimate friend, my wife, the wife whose devotion had made

me what I was. For awhile the figure of Margaret, remote, wounded,

shamed, dominated my mind, and the thoughtof my immense

ingratitude. Damn them! they'd take it out of her too. I had a

feelingthat I wanted to go straight back and grip some one by the

throat, some one talking ill of Margaret. They'd blame her for not

keeping me, for letting things go so far… I wanted the whole

world to knowhow fine she was. I sawin imagination the busy,

excited dinner tables at work upon us all, rather pleasantly

excited, brightly indignant, merciless.

Well, it's the stuff we are!…

Then suddenly, stabbing me to the heart, came a vision of Margaret's

tears and the sound of her voice saying, "Husband mine! Oh! husband

mine! To seeyou cry!"…

I came out of a cloud of thoughtsto discover the narrow

compartment, with its feeble lamp overhead, and our rugs and hand-

baggage swaying on the rack, and Isabel, very still in front of me,

gripping my wilting red roses tightly in her bare and ringless hand.

For a moment I could not understandher attitude, and then I

perceivedshe was sitting bent together with her head averted from

the light to hide the tears that were streaming down her face. She

had not got her handkerchief out for fearthat I should seethis,

but I sawher tears, dark drops of tears, upon her sleeve…

I suppose she had been watching my expression, divining my thoughts.

For a time I stared at her and was motionless, in a sort of still

and weary amazement. Why had we done this injury to one another?

WHY? Then something stirred within me.

"ISABEL!" I whispered.

She made no sign.

"Isabel!" I repeated, and then crossed over to her and crept closely

to her, put my arm about her, and drew her wet cheek to mine.

The End