"I was not alluding to my wife," he answered. "I was thinking of your
own story."

"My own story?"

"So many years ago. Was it not rather a mistake?"

I looked at him a moment; he's positively rosy.

"That's not a question to solve in a London crush."

And I turned away.

22d.--I haven't yet called on the _ci-devant_; I am afraid of finding her
at home. And that boy's words have been thrumming in my ears--"Depend
upon it you were wrong. Wasn't it rather a mistake?" _Was_ I
wrong--_was_ it a mistake? Was I too cautions--too suspicious--too
logical? Was it really a protector she needed--a man who might have
helped her? Would it have been for his benefit to believe in her, and
was her fault only that I had forsaken her? Was the poor woman very
unhappy? God forgive me, how the questions come crowding in! If I
marred her happiness, I certainly didn't make my own. And I might have
made it--eh? That's a charming discovery for a man of my age!