"I am leaving you to-day, for I feel, now you are well again, that
you will find it easier in my absence to consider very carefully
your position. Your marriage to me was simply an act of impulse. I
gave way in the matter because you were in no state to be thwarted.
But if, after consideration, you find that that act was a mistake,
dictated by weakness, and heaven knows what besides of generosity
and pity, something may yet be done to remedy it. It has never been
published, and, if you are content to lead a single life, no one
who matters need ever know that it took place. I am returning to my
work at Farringdean for the present. I am aware that you may find
some difficulty in putting your feelings in this matter into words.
If so, I shall understand your silence.
Yours,
"N. V. WEST."
"Isn't he quaint?" said Cynthia, with a little gay grimace. "Now do you
know what I'm going to do, Jack? I'm going to get a certain good friend
of mine to drive me all the way to Farringdean in his motor. It's
Sunday, you know, and all the fates conspire to make the trains
impossible."
"How soon do you wish to start?" asked Babbacombe.
"Right away!" laughed Cynthia. "And if we don't get run in for exceeding
the speed limit, we ought to be there by seven."
It was as a matter of fact barely half-past six when Babbacombe turned
the motor in at the great gates of Farringdean Park.
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