CONFIDENCE
returned for a moment, before bidding him to come in. Gordon came in and came up to him; then he held out his hand. Bernard took it with great satisfaction; his last feeling had been that he was very weary of this ridiculous quarrel, and it was an extreme relief to find it was over. "It was very good of you to go to London," said Gordon, looking at him with all the old serious honesty of his eyes.
"I have always tried to do what I could to oblige you," Bernard answered, smiling.
"You must have cursed me over there," Gordon went on.
"I did, a little. As you were cursing me here, it was permissible."
"That's over now," said Gordon. "I came to welcome you back. It seemed to me I couldn't lay my head upon my pillow without speaking to you."
"I am glad to get back," Bernard admitted, smiling still. "I can't deny that. And I find you as I believed I should." Then he added seriously—"I knew Angela would keep us good friends."
For a moment Gordon said nothing. Then at last—
"Yes, for that purpose it didn't matter which of us should marry her. If it had been I," he added, "she would have made you accept it equally."
"Ah, I don't know!" Bernard exclaimed.
"I am sure of it," said Gordon earnestly—almost argumentatively. "She's an extraordinary woman."
"Keeping you good friends with me—that's a great thing. But it's nothing to her keeping you good friends with your wife."
Gordon looked at Bernard for an instant; then he fixed his eyes for some time on the fire.
"Yes, that is the greatest of all things. A man should value his wife. He should believe in her. He has taken her, and he should keep her—especially
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