The weakness of the man threw itself strangely, instinctively, on the moral strength of the woman; as though in this still young and winning creature he might recover something of what he had lost in childhood, when his mother died.

He mocked at his own paradox, but it held him.

That very night would he write to her; not yet about Phoebe--not yet!--but letting her understand, at least, that he was _not_ ungrateful, that he valued her sympathy and good-will.

Already the phrases of the letter, warm and eloquent, yet restrained, began to flow through his mind.

It might be an unusual thing to do; but she was no silly conventional woman; she would understand.
By Jove! Welby was perfectly right.