Allan went forward to meet him.

Nancy stood up to study the lines of an etching on the wall.
"I've come to say good-bye, you know." She heard the miserable embarrassment of his tones, and knew, though she did not glance at him, that there was a shameful droop to his whole figure.
Allan shook hands with him, first taking the letter he held.
"Good-bye--old chap--God bless you!" He muttered, with that wretched consciousness of guilt, something about being sorry to go.
"And I don't want to preach, old chap," continued Allan, giving the hand a farewell grip, "but remember there are always two pairs of arms that will never be shut to you, the arms of the Church of Him who died to save us,--and my own poor arms, hardly less loving." "Thank you, old boy--I'll go back to Hoover"-- he looked hesitatingly at the profile of Nancy--"Hoover thinks it's all rather droll, you know--Good-bye, old boy! Good-bye, Nancy." "My dear, Bernal is saying good-bye." She turned and said "good-bye." He stepped toward her--seeming to her to slink as he walked--but he held out his hand and she gave him her own, cold, and unyielding.

He went out, with a last awkward "Good-bye, old chap!" to Allan.
Nancy turned to face her husband, putting out her hands to him.

He had removed from its envelope the letter Bernal had left him, and seemed about to put it rather hastily into his pocket, but she seized it playfully, not noting that his hand gave it up with a certain reluctance, her eyes upon his face.
"No more business to-night--we have to talk.

Oh, I must tell you so much that has troubled me and made me doubt, my dear--and my poor mind has been up and down like a see-saw.