“Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. I went to the theatre that night. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here. "Come home directly, Sir.
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