tore it open. The next instant it fluttered from his hold.
For fully ten seconds John Chetwynd sat spell-bound, and then he
broke into a laugh--mirthless, hollow.
"And I prayed to my God to send his blessing on--our--future," he
said in a dull, mechanical manner. "Well, the last act is played out
and they may ring the curtain down. From to-night I believe neither
in woman, Heaven, nor hell, save that which each man makes for
himself."
Bella had turned her shapely back on the apotheosis of respectability
for a life of excitement and the protection of another man. Nobody
was surprised but John himself.
Everybody had predicted it months ago. The only astonishing feature
of the scandal was, that it had not occurred before.
The one other thing people found surprising was the callousness with
which the injured husband took it.
It had always been believed that what love there was, was on his
side, but now--
Well, it is indeed an ill wind that blows us no good. If notoriety
was what John Chetwynd desired, he got it in full measure, well
pressed down and brimming over; his waiting room was besieged, for
many patients flocked there, wide eyed in scrutiny, martyrs to
symptoms discovered or invented for the occasion.
Of course he would divorce her. And he did.
In due course he obtained his decree _nisi_, which later on was made
absolute.
Bella's picture no longer stared him in the face from every hoarding,
and the newspaper advertisements knew her no more. She had gone back
to the States, and by-and-by was forgotten on this side the Atlantic.
Now and then he was disagreeably reminded of her existence.
Once in the Club a young fellow to whom Chetwynd was personally
unknown stretched himself behind a newspaper and muttered, "Bella
Blackall Wasn't that the name of Dr. Somebody's wife who ran away
with another fellow?"
"Yes, Bella Blackall was my wife," John Chetwynd answered with
unruffled equanimity, picking up the paper which the other had thrown
down. "She used to be rather a clever dancer, too."
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