Linley returned to the newspaper which he had been reading when
his friend was shown into the room.

Line by line he followed the progress of the law report, which
informed its thousands of readers that his wife had divorced him,
and had taken lawful possession of his child. Word by word, he
dwelt with morbid attention on the terms of crushing severity in
which the Lord President had spoken of Sydney Westerfield and of
himself. Sentence by sentence he read the reproof inflicted on
the unhappy woman whom he had vowed to love and cherish. And
then--even then--urged by his own self-tormenting suspicion, he
looked for more. On the opposite page there was a leading
article, presenting comments on the trial, written in the tone of
lofty and virtuous regret; taking the wife's side against the
judge, but declaring, at the same time, that no condemnation of
the conduct of the husband and the governess could be too
merciless, and no misery that might overtake them in the future
more than they had deserved.

He threw the newspaper on the table at his side, and thought over
what he had read.

If he had done nothing else, he had drained the bitter cup to the
dregs. When he looked back, he saw nothing but the life that he
had wasted. When his thoughts turned to the future, they
confronted a prospect empty of all promise to a man still in the
prime of life. Wife and child were as completely lost to him as
if they had been dead--and it was the wife's doing. Had he any
right to complain? Not the shadow of a right. As the newspapers
said, he had deserved it.