When Dora was alone, she took Philip's letter and put it by without opening; then she softly began to untie the small packet. She could not repress her emotion at the sight of these little flowers, that brought back the memory of the happiest days of her life. It was like a breath of Elm Avenue, stealing into her attic.

"Our little family," she said. "Poor little flowers, you were happy when Philip plucked you, happy even as I in those days was happy! And to-day you are faded, limp, and lifeless, even as my poor heart. Oh, cursed be life, I cannot weep even at sight of you.... You at least have no memory to torture you. What would I not give to obliterate my own!"

When Hobbs came in to set the table, she found Dora lying drowsily back in her armchair, holding in her hands the flowers whose history the good woman knew well. She did not like to disturb her mistress, and retired discreetly into the bedroom to wait patiently until Dora should wake. But Dora did not stir, and the beefsteak would certainly be spoilt. Hobbs returned, and softly and deftly set about her preparations.

Dora opened her eyes, and was annoyed to see Hobbs smiling at sight of the flowers she still held in her hands. It seemed as if the servant had surprised a dear secret, and was reading in her mistress's heart something that she herself could scarcely decipher yet.

"The pansies come back!... Then it must be master who has sent them," said Hobbs.

"Yes," replied Dora, "yes, it is he; they no longer mean anything to him, so he sent them to me. He gets rid of them."

"And shall I tell you what I think? I think that these flowers mean a great deal to him still, and, if he has sent them here, it is that they may say to you, 'In the name of the happy past that these flowers will remind you of, come back to me. I love you and I wait for you.' That's what I think."

Dora did not encourage Hobbs to continue. She rose and went to the table; but she had no appetite, and scarcely touched the succulent food that Hobbs had prepared for her.

"I expect Mr. Lorimer at four o'clock," said Dora; "he is coming to have tea with me. Meanwhile, I am going to read. I want to be alone here, for a while, Hobbs."

When the lunch had been taken away, Dora remained in the studio and installed herself in an armchair with a book in her hand, but she did not read. The thoughts chased one another through her brain. Doubt and incertitude pursued her and disturbed her inmost soul, but although she could not exactly explain to herself what was passing within her, she felt that this doubt and incertitude were no longer of Philip's innocence, but of his culpability. The fact is, she was waiting eagerly for Lorimer's return, not only because his breezy company acted as a tonic to her nerves, and seemed to bring forth fresh strength, but because she was dying to learn more details about Philip's doings.

She did not say it to herself in so many words but something within her cried out: "You are unjust, your obstinacy blinds you; lend an ear to all that can throw light on this matter; do not refuse any longer to learn the facts."

Lorimer was punctual to the minute. As the clock struck four, he walked into the studio. He found Dora in the same dress which she had worn in the morning, but he noticed that her hair was differently arranged, and that her very simple mourning robes yet possessed an air of elegance. In her whole appearance there was something which revealed a woman who had retained a consciousness of her beauty.

Lorimer seemed in gayer mood than ever. Dora noticed it at once, and the good spirits of her old friend insensibly roused a response in her.

Hobbs brought in the tea, and Dora poured out two cups.

Lorimer took a piece of cake, drank his cup of tea, and asked for a second. He helped himself to another slice of cake, and drank his second cup of tea with evident relish.

"Another cup?" said Dora.

"With pleasure; your tea is delicious, and tea to me is a life-saving liquid, a sovereign remedy for numberless ills. No washerwoman sips her bohea with greater gusto. It is tea that revives me after fatigue, tea that stimulates me when I am at work, tea that cheers me in desponding moments. Long live tea!"

"You must not overdo your devotion," said Dora.

"Oh, my dear friend," rejoined Lorimer, "you must not overdo anything, if it comes to that—you allow a cigarette?"

"I allow two; have you a light?"

"Yes, thank you."

Lorimer lit a cigarette, inhaled the fragrant smoke, and sent it soaring in blue spirals to the ceiling.

"We were speaking of abusing things just now ... well, as a matter of fact, it is our most salient national trait. I pass most of my time in preaching upon this text. The word moderation scarcely exists for us. The apostles of temperance, for instance, exhort to total abstinence, instead of moderation. The word temperance cannot by any stretch of its meaning imply total abstinence, the essence of its significance is moderation. When one speaks of a country as enjoying a temperate climate, that does not mean that the country has no climate at all, it means that it has a moderate climate, and is not very hot or very cold."

Dora began to wonder whether Lorimer was going to philosophise long, or whether the conversation would soon turn upon Philip again.

"It is in the Anglo-Saxon blood," continued Lorimer. "We fling ourselves heart and soul into our enterprises, even to the danger of our well-being and our happiness; we do not know how to steer the middle course. For instance, now, take Philip's case. It is just that. There you have a striking example of my theory. A Frenchman who had invented his shell, would probably have gone on painting pictures. The Frenchman who has made a fortune, eases off steam, and takes things easily. The Anglo-Saxon who has made a fortune, wants to straightway make another. Philip is English, he can't help it.... I call that the complete absorption of the individual; and, after all, this very defect in our national character has been a source of glory, for it has helped us to do great deeds and conquer half the earth."

"Granted," said Dora; "but it is not your theory upon what you are pleased to call the complete absorption of a man, which will explain how that man can forget all his obligations to his wife."

Lorimer smiled as he realised that Dora continued to think of Philip.

"Oh, but it does, at least up to a certain point. First of all, what do you mean by all his obligations towards his wife? If to neglect her is to fail in all his duty towards her, my theory explains the phenomenon perfectly."

"Come, come, my dear friend, do you maintain, for instance, that a husband who loves his wife, or even only respects her, forces her to receive the visits of a man whom he knows to have been in love with her before her marriage, and who has earned for himself a well-merited reputation as a libertine? Is that kind of thing a natural consequence of the complete absorption?"

"We are getting on now," thought Lorimer.

"Does he invite that man to his house to dine, and then miss a train, so that they may be thrown together en tÊte-À-tÊte for a whole evening? Is that your absorption, too? Ah, don't talk to me, my dear Gerald; there are circumstances which awake the most absorbed man on earth."

Lorimer remained dumb, and looked at Dora in the strangest manner, as if seeking to know whether he had heard aright. He threw his cigarette on the tray and drew nearer to her. He hardly knew whether to pity her or to reproach her bitterly.

"What!" said he, "you do not know what happened to Philip at the moment that he was about to leave the Paris hotel to return to London in time to dine with Sabaroff? He never explained all that to you? Why, he told me that he had written you a long explanation of it all."

"It is quite true that he has written to me several times since that dreadful day, but I have torn up unread every letter he has sent me since I left that hated house."

"Well," said Lorimer, with an air of mixed pity and amazement, "upon my word, you can do clever things, when you set about it! If you had read his letters, you would have learnt the whole truth."

"Tell me yourself, tell me everything," said Dora breathlessly.

"Listen, then, while I show you how unfounded was your crowning suspicion of him. Philip's business in Paris being finished, he had breakfasted early, and was descending the staircase on his way to his cab, when, as he reached the first floor landing, a door opened, and a gentleman came out. Judge of his feelings at finding himself face to face with his father! One glance served to show Philip that a great change had come over him. From a hale, haughty, self-reliant man of sixty, he had turned into a pitiable invalid, and looked prematurely old and feeble. A broken cry, 'My son!' arrested Philip's steps. Struck with pity at the sight of the change in his father, he allowed himself to be led through the still-open door, and there ensued a moving scene in which the elder man humbled himself before the younger and implored his forgiveness. The minutes fled by meanwhile, and when Philip, unnerved and shaken, reached the station, it was only to find that the train had left two minutes before. The rest you know."

"Oh, my poor brain is on fire," murmured Dora.

"Dora, you have misjudged Philip. He made you rich, thinking to add to your happiness—that is the only harm he ever did you. Ah, say that you forgive him, and will go back to him—he is waiting for you."

"No, no, never in that house."

"No," said Lorimer softly; "not in that house, but the old studio in Elm Avenue."

"Where? what did you say?" exclaimed Dora.

"Philip has left the house you hate so, because of its cruel souvenirs. He has gone back to St. John's Wood, where you spent the first six years of your married life, and, in order never to be turned out of that house, he has bought it."

"But the house is inhabited," said Dora.

"I know it."

"Why, then—it must be Philip" ...

"Who occupies it," said Lorimer; "he is only waiting for your presence, dear Dora, before beginning to work again. He will devote the rest of his life to painting in the old studio. It is his irrevocable resolution."

A ray of ineffable joy spread over Dora's face; but the shock had been too violent and too sudden. She was not strong enough to bear such emotion as the news had caused her. Repeating over Lorimer's phrase, "It is he who occupies the house! Oh, my dear old studio!" she fell fainting into his arms, and he called Hobbs to come quickly to her mistress's aid. After a few moments her eyes opened, she smiled at Lorimer, and he took her hands and kissed them.

It was five o'clock. Dr. Templeton arrived, and had Dora led to her bedroom, with a recommendation to rest quietly on the bed a while.

"It is only a little weakness," said he; "her pulse is almost normal. This sort of thing is often caused by sudden emotion. It will soon be over, but I will stay near her for the present."

"My plan is working well," said Lorimer; "I will give the signal to Philip. Be careful that she does not enter this room until everything is ready."

The doctor nodded assent, as he opened Dora's door and disappeared inside.

Philip came upstairs, trembling like a culprit. When he looked around and took in the details of the poor studio, which was such a faithful copy of another dear to both, he could not restrain his emotion. All that Dora had kept back from his knowledge, this pathetic room revealed to him. He had difficulty in keeping back his tears.

"Dora is there," whispered Lorimer, pointing to the room.

"Ah, she is there!"

He stepped softly over on tiptoe. Through the door of this room, the heart of Philip sent a message to Dora: "If a man's devotion can revive a woman's long-lost smile, and redeem the wrong that he has thoughtlessly inflicted, you shall live joyously once more, cherished and adored. The remainder of my life shall be consecrated to your happiness."

Dr. Templeton came into the studio, and announced that Dora was sleeping.

"To tell you the truth," said he to Lorimer, "your plan frightened me somewhat at first. I was afraid that the shock might be a little too much for our fragile patient. She is far from strong, she has been overtaxing her strength, and the emotions of this day, followed up by such a scene as you have planned, would, I feared, be a heavy strain to subject her to. However, I have just carefully sounded her heart, and, thank Heaven, I feel relieved. It is beating regularly enough now, and I think we can, in all security, try the little manoeuvre you suggest. It is a trifle melodramatic perhaps, but an excellent idea for all that."

"Well, then, to work at once," said Lorimer. "Let us proceed to make this room a still more faithful copy of the St. John's Wood studio than Dora has done, by adding to it the artist himself."

Philip, docile as a child in the hands of these two friends, lent himself to the scheme, and did exactly as he was bid. He began by taking off his coat and donning his working jacket, then, palette and brush in hand, he seated himself on the stool in front of the easel that bore the portrait of Dora.

"Perfect," said Lorimer, who surveyed every detail, as if he had been superintending a rehearsal of one of his plays. "If I am successful to-day, this scene will be my chef-d'oeuvre."

Dr. Templeton went to Dora's room and found her sleeping soundly.

"She sleeps still," he said, as he rejoined the others; "do not let us disturb her. When she wakens, Hobbs is going to let me know, and I will go in and fetch her."

They remained talking together in hushed tones for about twenty minutes. Hobbs opened the door, and made a sign to signify that the patient was awake.

Immediately Dr. Templeton rose and went to the bedroom, while Lorimer lowered the blinds and darkened the studio, so that nothing could be clearly distinguished. Philip again took up his position at the easel.

"As soon as ever the room gets lighter, work away at the picture, so as to give the impression that you are finishing it, and take no notice of anything else around you.... Hush, I think I hear her coming!"

Sounds were heard coming from Dora's room.

The door was opened slowly.

"Now then, attention!" whispered Lorimer, "and quite steady, please, as the photographers say."

The doctor led in Dora, followed by Hobbs.

"How dark it is!" said Dora; "have I slept a long while? Mr. Lorimer is gone, I suppose?"

Lorimer was watching from behind a screen the working out of his stratagem.

"Dear Mrs. Grantham," said Dr. Templeton, "I am going to make a particular request of you. I want to try an experiment. Just to please me, would you mind taking this palette and these brushes, and seating yourself in front of that easel?"

The reader remembers that Dora had placed, side by side, in her poor room, the two easels that had so stood in Philip's studio.

"It is not exactly a favour I ask, it is a prescription that I have great faith in for you, and that may have great results—I beg of you!"

"Why, of course, with pleasure," said Dora, allowing herself to be drawn towards the second easel.

"Now, mix your colours and prepare to do some painting."

"But what shall I mix?" demanded Dora; "I am only too willing to obey."

"Oh, never mind what—I am making a little experiment with you—that is all; I will tell you later on more about it—come, you can't refuse me.

"But, my dear doctor, the room is too dark; I cannot see; is it evening already?"

"You are right. I will give you some more light."

Little by little, the doctor raised the blind. Philip did not stir. Faithful to his instructions, as soon as the light was let in, he began assiduously using his brush.

Dora, languid and ignoring all that was taking place around her, was mechanically mixing her colours, while waiting for Dr. Templeton to tell her that he had finished his experiment, and that she might rise from her seat. The room was now quite light.

"Well, doctor," said she, "is it over?" She turned round, and saw Philip at work on the portrait, and absorbed in his occupation, as he had been in the dear old days gone by. Palette and pencils fell from her hands. She gazed silent and breathless. She took her head in both hands, as if to assure herself that she was awake and not dreaming.

Philip turned with an imploring look in his eyes. Then, laying down his brush and palette, he rose slowly and stood with open arms.

Dora uttered one cry, "Philip!" and, sobbing with joy, she buried her face in her husband's breast.

"Dora, my Dora!" repeated Philip, caressing the beautiful head that lay once more in his embrace.

They remained for several minutes, oblivious of everything around, united in a new-found exquisite bliss.

Hobbs ran to hide her own tears and emotions in the bedroom of her beloved mistress.

"Well, my dear doctor," said Lorimer, "we have had an afternoon's work, but it has been successful, eh?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Templeton, "she is saved."

"And now I am going to wind up the old clock and set it going once more," said Lorimer.

This done, the two men softly stole out of the studio.

And the old clock, with its good, round, cheery face, seemed to smile at Philip and Dora, while its tick-tack said, as plainly as could be, "Here are the good days come again, and I will count their hours for you."

THE END

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