“You’re off to the meet?”

“I am.  Look at the day!”

Chloe Fairmile, who was standing in her riding-habit at the window of the Duchess’s morning-room, turned to greet her hostess.

A mild November sun shone on the garden and the woods, and Chloe’s face ­the more exquisite as a rule for its slight, strange withering ­had caught a freshness from the morning.

The Duchess was embraced, and bore it; she herself never kissed anybody.

“You always look well, my dear, in a habit, and you know it.  Tell me what I shall do with this invitation.”

“From Lady Warton?  May I look?”

Chloe took a much blotted and crossed letter from the Duchess’s hand.

“What were her governesses about?” said the Duchess, pointing to it. “Really ­the education of our class!  Read it!”

...  “Can I persuade you to come ­and bring Mrs. Fairmile ­next Tuesday to dinner, to meet Roger Barnes and his wife?  I groan at the thought, for I think she is quite one of the most disagreeable little creatures I ever saw.  But Warton says I must ­a Lord-Lieutenant can’t pick and choose! ­and people as rich as they are have to be considered.  I can’t imagine why it is she makes herself so odious.  All the Americans I ever knew I have liked particularly.  It is, of course, annoying that they have so much money ­but Warton says it isn’t their fault ­it’s Protection, or something of the kind.  But Mrs. Barnes seems really to wish to trample on us.  She told Warton the other day that his tapestries ­you know, those we’re so proud of ­that they were bad Flemish copies of something or other ­a set belonging to a horrid friend of hers, I think.  Warton was furious.  And she’s made the people at Brendon love her for ever by insisting that they have now ruined all their pictures without exception, by the way they’ve had them restored ­et cetera, et cetera.  She really makes us feel her millions ­and her brains ­too much.  We’re paupers, but we’re not worms.  Then there’s the Archdeacon ­why should she fall foul of him?  He tells Warton that her principles are really shocking.  She told him she saw no reason why people should stick to their husbands or wives longer than it pleased them ­and that in America nobody did!  He doesn’t wish Mrs. Mountford to see much of her; ­though, really, my dear, I don’t think Mrs. M. is likely to give him trouble ­do you?  And I hear, of course, that she thinks us all dull and stuck-up, and as ignorant as savages.  It’s so odd she shouldn’t even want to be liked! ­a young woman in a strange neighbourhood.  But she evidently doesn’t, a bit.  Warton declares she’s already tired of Roger ­and she’s certainly not nice to him.  What can be the matter?  Anyway, dear Duchess, do come, and help us through.”

“What, indeed, can be the matter?” repeated Chloe lightly, as she handed back the letter.

“Angela Warton never knows anything.  But there’s not much need for you to ask, my dear,” said the Duchess quietly.

Mrs. Fairmile turned an astonished face.

“Me?”

The Duchess, more bulky, shapeless and swathed than usual, subsided on a chair, and just raised her small but sharp eyes on Mrs. Fairmile.

“What can you mean?” said Chloe, after a moment, in her gayest voice.  “I can’t imagine.  And I don’t think I’ll try.”

She stooped and kissed the untidy lady in the chair.  The Duchess bore it again, but the lines of her mouth, with the strong droop at the corners, became a trifle grim.  Chloe looked at her, smiled, shook her head.  The Duchess shook hers, and then they both began to talk of an engagement announced that morning in the Times.

Mrs. Fairmile was soon riding alone, without a groom ­she was an excellent horse-woman, and she never gave any unnecessary trouble to her friends’ servants ­through country lanes chequered with pale sun.  As for the Duchess’s attack upon her, Chloe smarted.  The Duchess had clearly pulled her up, and Chloe was not a person who took it well.

If Roger’s American wife was by now wildly jealous of his old fiancee, whose fault was it?  Had not Mrs. Barnes herself thrown them perpetually together?  Dinners at Upcott! ­invitations to Heston! ­a resolute frequenting of the same festal gatherings with Mrs. Fairmile.  None of it with Roger’s goodwill, or his mother’s, ­Chloe admitted it.  It had been the wife’s doing ­all of it.  There had been even ­rare occurrences ­two or three balls in the neighbourhood.  Roger hated dancing, but Daphne had made him go to them all.  Merely that she might display her eyes, her diamonds, and her gowns?  Not at all.  The real psychology of it was plain.  “She wishes to keep us under observation ­to give us opportunities ­and then torment her husband.  Very well then! ­tu l’as voulu, Madame!”

As to the “opportunities,” Chloe coolly confessed to herself that she had made rather a scandalous use of them.  The gossip of the neighbourhood had been no doubt a good deal roused; and Daphne, it seemed, was discontented.  But is it not good for such people to be discontented?  The money and the arrogance of Roger’s wife had provoked Roger’s former fiancee from the beginning; the money to envy, and the arrogance to chastisement.  Why not?  What is society but a discipline?

As for Roger, who is it says there is a little polygamy in all men?  Anyway, a man can always ­nearly always ­keep a corner for the old love, if the new love will let him.  Roger could, at any rate; “though he is a model husband, far better than she deserves, and anybody not a fool could manage him.”

It was a day of physical delight, especially for riders.  After a warm October, the leaves were still thick on the trees; Nature had not yet resigned herself to death and sleep.  Here and there an oak stood, fully green, among the tawny reds and golds of a flaming woodland.  The gorse was yellow on the commons; and in the damp woody ways through which Chloe passed, a few primroses ­frail, unseasonable blooms ­pushed their pale heads through the moss.  The scent of the beech-leaves under foot; the buffeting of a westerly wind; the pleasant yielding of her light frame to the movement of the horse; the glimpses of plain that every here and there showed themselves through the trees that girdled the high ground or edge along which she rode; the white steam-wreath of a train passing, far away, through strata of blue or pearly mist; an old windmill black in the middle distance; villages, sheltering among their hedges and uplands:  a sky, of shadow below widely brooding over earth, and of a radiant blue flecked with white cloud above: ­all the English familiar scene, awoke in Chloe Fairmile a familiar sensuous joy.  Life was so good ­every minute, every ounce of it! ­from the Duchess’s chef to these ethereal splendours of autumn ­from the warm bath, the luxurious bed, and breakfast, she had but lately enjoyed, to these artistic memories that ran through her brain, as she glanced from side to side, reminded now of Turner, now of DeWint, revelling in the complexity of her own being.  Her conscience gave her no trouble; it had never been more friendly.  Her husband and she had come to an understanding; they were in truth more than quits.  There was to be no divorce ­and no scandal.  She would be very prudent.  A man’s face rose before her that was not the face of her husband, and she smiled ­indulgently.  Yes, life would be interesting when she returned to town.  She had taken a house in Chester Square from the New Year; and Tom was going to Teheran.  Meanwhile, she was passing the time.

A thought suddenly occurred to her.  Yes, it was quite possible ­probable even ­that she might find Roger at the meet!  The place appointed was a long way from Heston, but in the old days he had often sent on a fresh horse by train to a local station.  They had had many a run together over the fields now coming into sight.  Though certainly if he imagined there were the very smallest chance of finding her there, he would give this particular meet a wide berth.

Chloe laughed aloud.  His resistance ­and his weakness ­were both so amusing.  She thought of the skill ­the peremptory smiling skill ­with which she had beguiled him into the garden, on the day when the young couple paid their first call at Upcott.  First, the low-spoken words at the back of the drawing-room, while Mrs. Barnes and the Duchess were skirmishing ­

“I must speak to you.  Something that concerns another person ­something urgent.”

Whereupon, unwilling and rather stern compliance on the man’s part ­the handsome face darkened with most unnecessary frowns.  And in the garden, the short colloquy between them ­“Of course, I see ­you haven’t forgiven me!  Never mind!  I am doing this for someone else ­it’s a duty.”  Then abruptly ­“You still have three of my letters.”

Amusing again ­his shock of surprise, his blundering denials!  He always was the most unmethodical and unbusiness-like of mortals ­poor Roger!  She heard her own voice in reply.  “Oh yes, you have.  I don’t make mistakes about such things.  Do you remember the letter in which I told you about that affair of Theresa Weightman?”

A stare ­an astonished admission.  Precisely!

“Well, she’s in great trouble.  Her husband threatens absurdities.  She has always confided in me ­she trusts me, and I can’t have that letter wandering about the world.”

“I certainly sent it back!”

“No ­you never sent it back.  You have three of mine.  And you know how careless you are ­how you leave things about.  I was always on tenterhooks.  Look again, please!  You must have some idea where they might be.”

Perplexity ­annoyance!

“When we sold the London house, all papers and documents were sent down here.  We reserved a room ­which was locked up.”

“A la bonne heure! Of course ­there they are.”

But all the same ­great unwillingness to search.  It was most unlikely he would be able to find anything ­most unlikely there was anything to find.  He was sure he had sent back everything.  And then a look in the fine hazel eyes ­like a horse putting back its ears.

All of no avail ­against the laughing persistence which insisted on the letters.  “But I must have them ­I really must!  It is a horrid tragedy, and I told you everything ­things I had no business to tell you at all.”

On which, at last, a grudging consent to look, followed by a marked determination to go back to the drawing-room....

But it was the second tete-a-tete that was really adroit!  After tea ­just a touch on the arm ­while the Duchess was showing the Nattiers to Mrs. Barnes, and Lelius was holding the lamp.  “One moment more! ­in the conservatory.  I have a few things to add.”  And in that second little interview ­about nothing, in truth ­a mere piece of audacity ­the lion’s claws had been a good deal pared.  He had been made to look at her, first and foremost; to realize that she was not afraid of him ­not one bit! ­and that he would have to treat her decently.  Poor Roger!  In a few years the girl he had married would be a plain and prickly little pedant ­ill-bred besides ­and he knew it.

As to more recent adventures.  If people meet in society, they must be civil; and if old friends meet at a dance, there is an institution known as “sitting out”; and “sitting out” is nothing if not conversational; and conversation ­between old friends and cousins ­is beguiling, and may be lengthy.

The ball at Brendon House ­Chloe still felt the triumph of it in her veins ­still saw the softening in Roger’s handsome face, the look of lazy pleasure, and the disapproval ­or was it the envy? ­in the eyes of certain county magnates looking on.  Since then, no communication between Heston and Upcott.

Mrs. Fairmile was now a couple of miles from the meet.  She had struck into a great belt of plantations bounding one side of the ducal estate.  Through it ran a famous green ride, crossed near its beginning by a main road.  On her right, beyond the thick screen of trees, was the railway, and she could hear the occasional rush of a train.

When she reached the cross road, which led from a station, a labourer opened the plantation gates for her.  As he unlatched the second, she perceived a man’s figure in front of her.

“Roger!”

A touch of the whip ­her horse sprang forward.  The man in front looked back startled; but she was already beside him.

“You keep up the old habit, like me?  What a lovely day!”

Roger Barnes, after a flush of amazement and surprise, greeted her coldly:  “It is a long way for you to come,” he said formally.  “Twelve miles, isn’t it?  You’re not going to hunt?”

“Oh, no!  I only came to look at the hounds and the horses ­to remind myself of all the good old times.  You don’t want to remember them, I know.  Life’s gone on for you!”

Roger bent forward to pat the neck of his horse.  “It goes on for all of us,” he said gruffly.

“Ah, well!” She sighed.  He looked up and their eyes met.  The wind had slightly reddened her pale skin:  her expression was one of great animation, yet of great softness.  The grace of the long, slender body in the close-fitting habit; of the beautiful head and loosened hair under the small, low-crowned beaver hat; the slender hand upon the reins ­all these various impressions rushed upon Barnes at once, bringing with them the fascination of a past happiness, provoking, by contrast, the memory of a harassing and irritating present.

“Is Heston getting on?” asked Mrs. Fairmile, smiling.

He frowned involuntarily.

“Oh, I suppose we shall be straight some day;” the tone, however, belied the words.  “When once the British workman gets in, it’s the deuce to get him out.”

“The old house had such a charm!” said Chloe softly.

Roger made no reply.  He rode stiffly beside her, looking straight before him.  Chloe, observing him without appearing to do anything of the kind, asked herself whether the Apollo radiance of him were not already somewhat quenched and shorn.  A slight thickening of feature ­a slight coarsening of form ­she thought she perceived them.  Poor Roger! ­had he been living too well and idling too flagrantly on these American dollars?

Suddenly she bent over and laid a gloved hand on his arm.

“Hadn’t it?” she said, in a low voice.

He started.  But he neither looked at her nor shook her off.

“What ­the house?” was the ungracious reply.  “I’m sure I don’t know; I never thought about it ­whether it was pretty or ugly, I mean.  It suited us, and it amused mother to fiddle about with it.”

Mrs. Fairmile withdrew her hand.

“Of course a great deal of it was ugly,” she said composedly.  “Dear Lady Barnes really didn’t know.  But then we led such a jolly life in it ­we made it!”

She looked at him brightly, only to see in him an angry flash of expression.  He turned and faced her.

“I’m glad you think it was jolly.  My remembrances are not quite so pleasant.”

She laughed a little ­not flinching at all ­her face rosy to his challenge.

“Oh, yes, they are ­or should be.  What’s the use of blackening the past because it couldn’t be the present.  My dear Roger, if I hadn’t ­well, let’s talk plainly! ­if I hadn’t thrown you over, where would you be now?  We should be living in West Kensington, and I should be taking boarders ­or ­no! ­a country-house, perhaps, with paying guests.  You would be teaching the cockney idea how to shoot, at half a guinea a day, and I should be buying my clothes second-hand through the Exchange and Mart.  Whereas ­whereas ­”

She bent forward again.

“You are a very rich man ­you have a charming wife ­a dear little girl ­you can get into Parliament ­travel, speculate, race, anything you please.  And I did it all!”

“I don’t agree with you,” he said drily.  She laughed again.

“Well, we can’t argue it ­can we?  I only wanted to point out to you the plain, bare truth, that there is nothing in the world to prevent our being excellent friends again ­now.  But first ­and once more ­my letters!”

Her tone was a little peremptory, and Roger’s face clouded.

“I found two of them last night, by the merest chance ­in an old dispatch-box I took to America.  They were posted to you on the way here.”

“Good!  But there were three.”

“I know ­so you said.  I could only find two.”

“Was the particular letter I mentioned one of them?”

He answered unwillingly.

“No.  I searched everywhere.  I don’t believe I have it.”

She shook her head with decision.

“You certainly have it.  Please look again.”

He broke out with some irritation, insisting that if it had not been returned it had been either lost or destroyed.  It could matter to no one.

Some snaring, entangling instinct ­an instinct of the hunter ­made her persist.  She must have it.  It was a point of honour.  “Poor Theresa is so unhappy, so pursued!  You saw that odious paragraph last week?  I can’t run the risk!”

With a groan of annoyance, he promised at last that he would look again. 
Then the sparkling eyes changed, the voice softened.

She praised ­she rewarded him.  By smooth transitions she slipped into ordinary talk; of his candidature for the County Council ­the points of the great horse he rode ­the gossip of the neighbourhood ­the charms of Beatty.

And on this last topic he, too, suddenly found his tongue.  The cloud ­of awkwardness, or of something else not to be analyzed ­broke away, and he began to talk, and presently to ask questions, with readiness, even with eagerness.

Was it right to be so very strict with children? ­babies under three?  Wasn’t it ridiculous to expect them not to be naughty or greedy?  Why, every child wanted as much sweetstuff as it could tuck in!  Quite right too ­doctors said it was good for them.  But Miss Farmer ­

“Who is Miss Farmer?” inquired Mrs. Fairmile.  She was riding close beside him ­an embodied friendliness ­a soft and womanly Chloe, very different from the old.

“She’s the nurse; my mother found her.  She’s a lady ­by way of ­she doesn’t do any rough work ­and I dare say she’s the newest thing out.  But she’s too tight a hand for my taste.  I say! ­what do you think of this!  She wouldn’t let Beattie come down to the drawing-room yesterday, because she cried for a sweet!  Wasn’t that devilish!” He brought his hand down fiercely on his thigh.

“A Gorgon!” said Mrs. Fairmile, raising her eyebrows.  “Any other qualifications?  French?  German?”

“Not a word.  Not she!  Her people live somewhere near here, I believe.”  Roger looked vaguely round him.  “Her father managed a brick-field on this estate ­some parson or other recommended her to mother.”

“And you don’t like her?”

“Well, no ­I don’t!  She’s not the kind of woman I want.”  He blurted it out, adding hurriedly, “But my wife thinks a lot of her.”

Chloe dismissed the topic of the nurse, but still let him run on about the child.  Amazing! ­this development of paternity in the careless, handsome youth of three years before.  She was amused and bored by it.  But her permission of it had thawed him ­that she saw.

Presently, from the child she led him on to common acquaintance ­old friends ­and talk flowed fast.  She made him laugh; and the furrows in the young brow disappeared.  Now as always they understood each other at a word; there was between them the freemasonry of persons sprung from the same world and the same tradition; his daily talk with Daphne had never this easy, slipping pleasure.  Meanwhile the horses sauntered on, unconsciously held back; and the magical autumn wood, its lights and lines and odours, played upon their senses.

At last Roger with a start perceived a gate in front.  He looked at his watch, and she saw him redden.

“We shall be late for the meet.”

His eyes avoided hers.  He gathered up the reins, evidently conscious.

Smiling, she let him open the gate for her, and then as they passed into the road, shadowed with over-arching trees, she reined in Whitefoot, and bending forward, held out her hand.  “Good-bye!”

“You’re not coming?”

“I think I’ve had enough.  I’ll go home.  Good-bye.”

It was a relief.  In both minds had risen the image of their arrival together ­amid the crowd of the meet.  As he looked at her ­gratefully ­the grace of her movement, the temptation of her eyes, the rush of old memories suddenly turned his head.  He gripped her hand hard for a minute, staring at her.

The road in front of them was quite empty.  But fifty yards behind them was a small red-brick house buried in trees.  As they still paused, hand in hand, in front of the gate into the wood, which had failed to swing back and remained half open, the garden door of this house unclosed and a young woman in a kind of uniform stepped into the road.  She perceived the two riders ­stopped in astonishment ­observed them unseen, and walked quickly away in the direction of the station.

Roger reached Heston that night only just in time to dress for dinner.

By this time he was in a wholly different mood; angry with himself, and full of rueful thought about his wife.  Daphne and he had been getting on anything but well for some time past.  He knew that he had several times behaved badly; why, indeed, that very afternoon, had he held Chloe Fairmile’s hand in the public road, like an idiot?  Suppose anyone had passed?  It was only Daphne’s tempers and the discomfort at home that made an hour with Chloe so pleasant ­and brought the old recollections back.  He vowed he never thought of her, except when she was there to make a fool of him ­or plague him about those beastly letters.  Whereas Daphne ­Daphne was always in his mind, and this eclipse into which their daily life had passed.  He seemed to be always tripping and stumbling, like a lame man among loose stones; doing or saying what he did not mean to do or say, and tongue-tied when he should have spoken.  Daphne’s jealousy made him ridiculous; he resented it hotly; yet he knew he was not altogether blameless.

If only something could be done to make Daphne like Heston and the neighbours!  But he saw plainly enough that in spite of all the effort and money she was pouring out upon the house, it gave her very little pleasure in return.  Her heart was not in it.  And as for the neighbours, she had scarcely a good word now for any of them.  Jolly! ­just as he was going to stand for the County Council, with an idea of Parliament later on!  And as for what he wished ­what would be good for him ­that she never seemed to think of.  And, really, some of the things she said now and then about money ­nobody with the spirit of a mouse could stand them.

To comfort his worries he went first of all to the nursery, where he found the nursery-maid in charge, and the child already asleep.  Miss Farmer, it appeared, had been enjoying a “day off,” and was not expected back till late.  He knelt down beside the little girl, feeding his eyes upon her.  She lay with her delicate face pressed into the pillow, the small neck visible under the cloud of hair, one hand, the soft palm uppermost, on the sheet.  He bent down and kissed the hand, glad that the sharp-faced nurse was not there to see.  The touch of the fragrant skin thrilled him with pride and joy; so did the lovely defencelessness of the child’s sleep.  That such a possession should have been given to him, to guard and cherish!  There was in his mind a passionate vow to guard the little thing ­aye, with his life-blood; and then a movement of laughter at his own heroics.  Well! ­Daphne might give him sons ­but he did not suppose any other child could ever be quite the same to him as Beatty.  He sat in a contented silence, feeding his eyes upon her, as the soft breath rose and fell.  And as he did so, his temper softened and warmed toward Beatty’s mother.

A little later he found Daphne in her room, already dressed for dinner.  He approached her uneasily.

“How tired you look, Daphne!  What have you been doing to yourself?”

Daphne stiffly pointed out that she had been standing over the workmen all day, there being no one else to stand over them, and of course she was tired.  Her manner would have provoked him but for the visiting of an inward compunction.  Instead of showing annoyance he bent down and kissed her.

“I’ll stay and help to-morrow, if you want me, though you know I’m no good.  I say, how much more are you going to do to the house?”

Daphne looked at him coldly.  She had not returned the kiss.  “Of course, I know that you don’t appreciate in the least what I am doing!”

Roger thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down uncomfortably.  He thought, in fact, that Daphne was spoiling the dear nondescript old place, and he knew that the neighbourhood thought so too.  Also he particularly disliked the young architect who was superintending the works ("a priggish ass,” who gave himself abominable airs ­except to Daphne, whom he slavishly obeyed, and to Miss Farmer, with whom Roger had twice caught him gossipping).  But he was determined not to anger his wife, and he held his tongue.

“I wish, anyway, you wouldn’t stick at it so closely,” he said discontentedly.  “Let’s go abroad somewhere for Christmas ­Nice, or Monte Carlo.  I am sure you want a change.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly an enchanting neighbourhood,” said Daphne, with pinched lips.

“I’m awfully sorry you don’t like the people here,” said Roger, perplexed.  “I dare say they’re all stupids.”

“That wouldn’t matter ­if they behaved decently,” said Daphne, flushing.

“I suppose that means ­if I behaved decently!” cried Roger, turning upon her.

Daphne faced him, her head in air, her small foot beating the ground, in a trick it had.

“Well, I’m not likely to forget the Brendon ball, am I?”

Roger’s look changed.

“I meant no harm, and you know I didn’t,” he said sulkily.

“Oh, no, you only made a laughing-stock of me!” Daphne turned on her heel.  Suddenly she felt herself roughly caught in Roger’s arms.

“Daphne, what is the matter?  Why can’t we be happy together?”

“Ask yourself,” she said, trying to extricate herself, and not succeeding.  “I don’t like the people here, and they don’t like me.  But as you seem to enjoy flirting with Mrs. Fairmile, there’s one person satisfied.”

Roger laughed ­not agreeably.  “I shall soon think, Daphne, that somebody’s ‘put a spell on you,’ as my old nurse used to say.  I wish I knew what I could do to break it.”

She lay passive in his arms a moment, and then he felt a shiver run through her, and saw that she was crying.  He held her close to him, kissing and comforting her, while his own eyes were wet.  What her emotion meant, or his own, he could not have told clearly; but it was a moment for both of healing, of impulsive return, the one to the other, unspoken penitence on her side, a hidden self-blame on his.  She clung to him fiercely, courting the pressure of his arms, the warm contact of his youth; while, in his inner mind, he renounced with energy the temptress Chloe and all her works, vowing to himself that he would give Daphne no cause, no pretext even, for jealousy, and would bear it patiently if she were still unjust and tormenting.

“Where have you been all day?” said Daphne at last, disengaging herself, and brushing the tears away from her eyes ­a little angrily, as though she were ashamed of them.

“I told you this morning.  I had a run with the Stoneshire hounds.”

“Whom did you meet there?”

“Oh, various old acquaintances.  Nobody amusing.”  He gave two or three names, his conscience pricking him.  Somehow, at that moment, it seemed impossible to mention Chloe Fairmile.

About eleven o’clock that night, Daphne and Lady Barnes having just gone upstairs, Roger and a local Colonel of Volunteers who was dining and spending the night at Heston, were in the smoking-room.  Colonel Williams had come over to discuss Volunteer prospects in the neighbourhood, and had been delighted to find in the grandson of his old friend, Oliver Trescoe, ­a young fellow whom he and others had too readily regarded as given over to luxury and soft living ­signs of the old public spirit, the traditional manliness of the family.  The two men were talking with great cordiality, when the sound of a dogcart driving up to the front door disturbed them.

“Who on earth? ­at this time of night?” said Roger.

The butler, entering with fresh cigarettes, explained that Miss Farmer had only just returned, having missed an earlier train.

“Well, I hope to goodness she won’t go and disturb Miss Beatty,” grumbled Roger; and and then, half to himself, half to his companion, as the butler departed ­“I don’t believe she missed her train; she’s one of the cool sort ­does jolly well what she likes!  I say, Colonel, do you like ‘lady helps’?  I don’t!”

Half an hour later, Roger, having said good-night to his guest ten minutes before, was mounting the stairs on his own way to bed, when he heard in the distance the sound of a closing door and the rustle of a woman’s dress.

Nurse Farmer, he supposed, who had been gossiping with Daphne.  His face, as the candle shone upon it, expressed annoyance.  Vaguely, he resented the kind of intimacy which had grown up lately between Daphne and her child’s nurse.  She was not the kind of person to make a friend of; she bullied Beatty; and she must be got rid of.

Yet when he entered his wife’s room, everything was dark, and Daphne was apparently sound asleep.  Her face was hidden from him; and he moved on tiptoe so as not to disturb her.  Evidently it was not she who had been gossiping late.  His mother, perhaps, with her maid.