The mental picture had recalled to both the evening
on which they last stood together in that golden lamplight.
Ronnie hesitated, looking at the floor. Then he raised his eyes to
Helen's. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, turned from her
quickly, and went upstairs.
In his room he scribbled a note.
"My wife--I am awfully sorry, but I simply _had_ to bolt. Don't be
alarmed. I have gone home to the Grange. I believe, when I am by myself
in the house where we spent the three years I thought so perfect and so
happy, I shall find out what is the matter; I shall get to the very root
of the Upas tree.
"I know I somehow hurt you horribly on the night I reached home, by
asking you to come to the studio to hear me play my 'cello; but, before
God, I haven't the faintest idea why!
"You would not have said what you did, had you known I was ill; but
neither would you have said it, unless it had been true. If it was true
then, it is true now. If it is true now, we can't spend Christmas Day
together.
"I want you to go to the Dalmains by motor, as soon as you find this,
and have a jolly, restful time with them. You look worn out.
"RONNIE."
"P.S.--I am obliged to leave this in my room. I hope you will find it
there. I don't even know where your room is, Helen, in this beastly
hotel."
Ronnie considered his postscript; then crossed out "beastly" and
substituted "large.
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