I
knew he was of abstemious habit or I should have thought he
had been drinking. I led the way into my sitting room and
asked him to sit down.
"Thank God I've found you," he said.
"What's the matter?" I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.
I was able now to see him well. As a rule he was neat in his
person, but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked
suddenly bedraggled. I was convinced he had been drinking,
and I smiled. I was on the point of chaffing him on his state.
"I didn't know where to go," he burst out. "I came here
earlier, but you weren't in."
"I dined late," I said.
I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to
this obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now
strangely mottled. His hands trembled.
"Has anything happened?" I asked.
"My wife has left me."
He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and
the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not
know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to
the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for
Strickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had
insisted that he should be turned out.
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