“And what’s to be done now?” said Major Ames, chipping his bacon high into the air above his plate. “If you didn’t hear me, I said, ‘What’s to be done now?’ I don’t know how you can look Riseborough in the face again, and, upon my word, I don’t see how I can. They’ll point at me in the street, and say, ‘That’s Major Ames, whose wife made a fool of herself.’ That’s what you did, Amy. You made a fool of yourself. And what was the good of it all? Are you any nearer getting the vote than before, because you’ve screamed ‘Votes for Women’ a dozen times? You’ve only given a proof the more of how utterly unfit you are to have anything at all of your own, let alone a vote. I passed a sleepless night with thinking of your folly, and I feel infernally unwell this morning.”

This clearly constituted a climax, and Mrs. Ames took advantage of the rhetorical pause that followed.

“Nonsense, Lyndhurst,” she said; “I heard you snoring.”

“It’s enough to make a man snore,” he said. “Snore, indeed! Why couldn’t you even have told me that you were going to behave like a silly lunatic, and if I couldn’t have persuaded you to behave sanely, I could have stopped away, instead of looking on at such an exhibition? Every one will suppose I must have known about it, and have countenanced you. I’ve a good mind to write to the Kent Chronicle and say that I was absolutely ignorant of what you were going to do. You’ve disgraced us; that’s what you’ve done.”

He took a gulp of tea, imprudently, for it was much hotter than he anticipated.

“And now I’ve burned my mouth!” he said.

Mrs. Ames put down her napkin, left her seat, and came and stood by him.

“I am sorry you are so much vexed,” she said, “but I can’t and I won’t discuss anything with you if you talk like that. You are thinking about nothing but yourself, whether you are disgraced, and whether you have had a bad night.”

“Certainly you don’t seem to have thought about me,” he said.

“As a matter of fact I did,” she said. “I knew you would not like it, and I was sorry. But do you suppose I liked it? But I thought most about the reason for which I did it.”

“You did it for notoriety,” said Major Ames, with conviction. “You wanted to see your name in the papers, as having interrupted a Cabinet Minister’s speech. You won’t even have that satisfaction, I am glad to say. Your cousin James, who is a decent sort of fellow after all, spoke to the reporters last night and asked them to leave out all account of the disturbance. They consented; they are decent fellows too; they didn’t want to give publicity to your folly. They were sorry for you, Amy; and how do you like half-a-dozen reporters at a pound a week being sorry for you? Your cousin James was equally generous. He bore no malice to me, and shook hands with me, and said he saw you were unwell when he sat down to dinner. But when a man of the world, as your Cousin James is, says he thinks that a woman is unwell, I know what he means. He thought you were intoxicated. Drunk, in fact. That’s what he thought. He thought you were drunk. My wife drunk. And it was the kindest interpretation he could have put upon it. Mad or drunk. He chose drunk. And he hoped I should be able to come over some day next week and help him to thin out the pheasants. Very friendly, considering all that had happened.”

Mrs. Ames moved slightly away from him.

“Do you mean to go?” she asked.

“Of course I mean to go. He shows a very generous spirit, and I think I can account for the highest of his rocketters. He wants to smoothe things over and be generous, and all that—hold out the olive branch. He recognizes that I’ve got to live down your folly, and if it’s known that I’ve been shooting with him, it will help us. Forgive and forget, hey? I shall just go over there, en garÇon, and will patch matters up. I dare say he’ll ask you over again some time. He doesn’t want to be hard on you. Nor do I, I am sure. But there are things no man can stand. A man’s got to put his foot down sometimes, even if he puts it down on his wife. And if I was a bit rough with you just now, you must realize, Amy, you must realize that I felt strongly, strongly and rightly. We’ve got to live down what you have done. Well, I’m by you. We’ll live it down together. I’ll make your peace with your cousin. You can trust me.”

These magnificent assurances failed to dazzle Mrs. Ames, and she made no acknowledgement of them. Instead, she went back rather abruptly and inconveniently to a previous topic.

“You tell me that Cousin James believed I was drunk,” she said. “Now you knew I was not. But you seem to have let it pass.”

Major Ames felt that more magnanimous assurances might be in place.

“There are some things best passed over,” he said. “Let sleeping dogs lie. I think the less we talk about last night the better. I hope I am generous enough not to want to rub it in, Amy, not to make you more uncomfortable than you are.”

Mrs. Ames sat down in a chair by the fireplace. A huge fire burned there, altogether disproportionate to the day, and she screened her face from the blaze with the morning paper. Also she made a mental note to speak to Parker about it.

“You are making me very uncomfortable indeed, Lyndhurst,” she said; “by not telling me what I ask you. Did you let it pass, when you saw James thought I was drunk?”

“Yes; he didn’t say so in so many words. If he had said so, well, I dare say I should have—have made some sort of answer. And, mind you, it was no accusation he made against you; he made an excuse for you!”

Mrs. Ames’ small, insignificant face grew suddenly very firm and fixed.

“We do not need to go into that,” she said. “You saw he thought I was drunk, and said nothing. And after that you mean to go over and shoot his pheasants. Is that so?”

“Certainly it is. You are making a mountain out of——”

“I am making no mountain out of anything. Personally, I don’t believe Cousin James thought anything of the kind. What matters is that you let it pass. What matters is that I should have to tell you that you must apologize to me, instead of your seeing it for yourself.”

Major Ames got up, pushing his chair violently back.

“Well, here’s a pretty state of things,” he cried; “that you should be telling me to apologize for last night’s degrading exhibition! I wonder what you’ll be asking next? A vote of thanks from the Mayor, I shouldn’t wonder, and an illuminated address. You teaching me what I ought to do! I should have thought a woman would have been only too glad to trust to her husband, if he was so kind, as I have been, as to want to get her out of the consequences of her folly. And now it’s you who must sit there, opposite a fire fit to roast an ox, and tell me I must apologize. Apologies be damned! There! It’s not my habit to swear, as you well know, but there are occasions—— Apologies be damned!”

And a moment later the house shook with the thunder of the slammed front door.

Mrs. Ames sat for a couple of minutes exactly where she was, still shielding her face from the fire. She felt all the chilling effects of the reaction that follows on excitement, whether the excitement is rapturous or as sickening as last night’s had been, but not for a moment did she regret her share either in the events of the evening before or in the sequel of this morning. Last night had ended in utter fiasco, but she had done her best; this morning’s talk had ended in a pretty sharp quarrel, but again she found it impossible to reconsider her share in it. Humanly she felt beaten and ridiculed and sick at heart, but not ashamed. She had passed a sleepless night, and was horribly tired, with that tiredness that seems to sap all pluck and power of resistance, and gradually her eyes grew dim, and the difficult meagre tears of middle age, which are so bitter, began to roll down her cheeks, and the hard inelastic sobs to rise in her throat.... Yet it was no use sitting here crying, lunch and dinner had to be ordered whether she felt unhappy or not; she had to see how extensive was the damage done to her pink satin shoes by the wet pavements last night; she had to speak about this ox-roasting fire. Also there was appointed a Suffragette meeting at Mr. Turner’s house for eleven o’clock, at which past achievements and future plans would be discussed. She had barely time to wash her face, for it was unthinkable that Parker or the cook should see she had been crying, and get through her household duties, before it was time to start.

She dried her eyes and went to the window, through which streamed the pale saffron-coloured October sunshine. All the stormy trouble of the night had passed, and the air sparkled with “the clear shining after rain.” But the frost of a few nights before had blackened the autumn flowers, and the chill rain had beaten down the glory of her husband’s chrysanthemums, so that the garden-beds looked withered and dishevelled, like those whose interest in life is finished, and who no longer care what appearance they present. The interest of others in them seemed to be finished also; it was not the gardener’s day here, for he only came twice in the week, and Major Ames, who should have been assiduous in binding up the broken-stemmed, encouraging the invalids, and clearing away the havoc wrought by the storm, had left the house. Perhaps he had gone to the club, perhaps even now he was trying to make light of it all. She could almost hear him say, “Women get queer notions into their heads, and the notions run away with them, bless them. You’ll take a glass of sherry with me, General, won’t you? Are you by any chance going to Sir James’ shoot next week? I’m shooting there one day.” Or was he talking it over somewhere else, perhaps not making light of it? She did not know; all she knew was that she was alone, and wanted somebody who understood, even if he disagreed. It did not seem to matter that Lyndhurst utterly disagreed with her, what mattered was that he had misunderstood her motives so entirely, that the monstrous implication that she had been intoxicated seemed to him an excuse. And he was not sorry. What could she do since he was not sorry? It was as difficult to answer that as it was easy to know what to do the moment he was sorry. Indeed, then it would be unnecessary to do anything; the reconciliation would be automatic, and would bring with it something she yearned after, an opportunity of making him see that she cared, that the woman in her reached out towards him, in some different fashion now from that in which she had tried to recapture the semblance of youth and his awakened admiration. To-day, she looked back on that episode shamefacedly. She had taken so much trouble with so paltry a purpose. And yet that innocent and natural coquetry was not quite dead in her; no woman’s heart need be so old that it no longer cares whether she is pleasing in her husband’s eyes. Only to-day, it seemed to Mrs. Ames that her pains had been as disproportionate to her purpose as they had been to its result; now she longed to take pains for a purpose that was somewhat deeper than that for which she softened her wrinkles and refreshed the colour of her hair.

She turned from the window and the empty garden, wishing that the rain would be renewed, so that there would be an excuse for her to go to Mr. Turner’s in a shut cab. As it was, there was no such excuse, and she felt that it would require an effort to walk past the club window, and to traverse the length of the High Street. Female Riseborough, on this warm sunny morning, she knew would be there in force, popping in and out of shops, and holding little conversations on the pavement. There would be but one topic to-day, and for many days yet; it would be long before the autumn novelty lost anything of its freshness. She wondered how her appearance in the town would be greeted; would people smile and turn aside as she approached, and whisper or giggle after she had gone by? What of the Mayor who, like an honest tradesman, was often to be seen at the door of his shop, or looking at the “dressing” of his windows? A policeman always stood at the bottom of the street, controlling the cross-traffic from St. Barnabas Road. Would he be that one who had helped to further her movements last night?... She almost felt she ought to thank him.... And then quite suddenly her pluck returned again, or it was that she realized that she did not, comparatively speaking, care two straws for any individual comment or by-play that might take place in the High Street, or for its accumulated weight. There were other things to care about. For them she cared immensely.

The High Street proved to be paved with incident. Turning quickly round the corner, she nearly ran into Bill, the policeman, off duty at this hour, and obviously giving a humorous recital of some sort to a small amused circle outside the public-house. It was abruptly discontinued when she appeared, and she felt that the interest that his audience developed in the sunny October sky, which they contemplated with faint grins, would be succeeded by stifled laughter after she had passed. A few paces further on, controlling the traffic of market-day, was her other policeman Bill, who smiled in a pleasant and familiar manner to her, as if there was some capital joke private to them. Twenty yards further along the street was standing the Mayor, contemplating his shop-window; he saw her, and urgent business appeared to demand his presence inside. After that there came General Fortescue tottering to the club; he crossed the street to meet her, and took off his hat and shook hands.

“By Jove! Mrs. Ames,” he said, “I never enjoyed a meeting so much, and my wife’s wild that she didn’t go. What a lark! Made me feel quite young again. I wanted to shout too, and tell them to give the ladies a vote. Monstrously amusing! Just going to the club to have a chat about it all.”

And he went on his way, with his fat old body shaking with laughter. Then, feeling rather ill from this encounter, she heard rapid steps in pursuit of her, and Mrs. Altham joined her.

“Oh, Mrs. Ames,” she said. “I could die of vexation that I was not there. Is it really true that you threw a glass of water at Mr. Chilcot and hit the policeman? Fancy, that it should have been such a terribly wet night, and Henry and I just sat at home, never thinking that five minutes in a cab would make such a difference. We sat and played patience; I should have been most impatient if I had known. And what is to happen next? It was so stupid of me not to join your league; I wonder if it is too late.”

This was quite dreadful; Mrs. Ames had been prepared for her husband’s anger, and for pride and aversion from people like Mrs. Altham. What was totally unexpected and unwelcome was that she was supposed to have scored a sort of popular success, that Riseborough considered the dreadful fiasco of last night as an achievement, something not only to talk about, but a kind of new game, more exciting than croquet or criticism. She had begun by thinking of the Suffragette movement as an autumn novelty, but leanness came very near her soul when she found that it now appeared to others as she had first thought of it herself. She had travelled since then; she had seen the hinterland of it; the idea that rose up behind it, austere and beautiful and wise. All that these others saw was just the hysterical jungle that bounded the coast. To her this morning, after her experience of it, the hysterical jungle seemed—an hysterical jungle. If it was only by that route that the heights could be attained, then that route must be followed. She was willing to try it again. But was there not somewhere and somehow a better road?

It was not necessary to be particularly cordial to Mrs. Altham, and she held out no certain prospect of an immediate repetition of last night’s scenes, nor of a desire for additional recruits. But further trials awaited her in this short walk. Dr. Evans, driving the high-stepping cob, wheeled round, and dismounted, throwing the reins to the groom.

“I must just congratulate you,” he said, “for Millie told me about last night. I’ve been telling her that if she had half your pluck, she would be the better for it. I hope you didn’t catch cold; beastly night, wasn’t it? Do let me know when it will come on again. I hate your principles, you know, but I love your practise. I shall come and shout, too!”

This was perfectly awful. Nobody understood; they all sympathized with her, but cared not two straws for that which had prompted her to do these sensational things.... They liked the sensational things ... it was fun to them. But it was no fun to those who believed in the principles which prompted them. They thought of her as a clown at a pantomime; they wanted to see Dan Leno.

She was some minutes late when she reached Mr. Turner’s house, depressed and not encouraged by this uncomprehending applause that took as an excellent joke all the manifestations which had been directed by so serious a purpose. What to her was tragic and necessary, was to them a farce of entertaining quality. But now she would meet her co-religionists again, those who knew, those whose convictions, of the same quality as hers, were of such weight as to make her feel that even her quarrel with Lyndhurst was light in comparison.

The jovial Turner family, father, mother, daughter, were in the drawing-room, and they hailed her as a heroine. If it had not been for her, there would have been no “scene” at all. Did the policemen hurt? Mr. Turner had got a small bruise on his knee, but it was quite doubtful whether he got it when he was taken out. Mrs. Turner had lost a small pearl ornament, but she was not sure whether she had put it on before going to the meeting. Miss Turner had a cold to-day, but it was certain that she had felt it coming on before they were all put out into the rain. None of them had seen the end; it was supposed that Mrs. Ames had thrown a glass of water at a policeman, and had hit Mr. Chilcot. They were all quite ready for Sir James’ next meeting; or would he be a coward, and cause scrutiny to be held on those who desired admittance?

Mrs. Brooks arrived; she had not been turned out last night, but she had caught cold, and did not think that much had been achieved. Mr. Chilcot had made his speech, apparently a very clever one, about Tariff Reform, and Sir James had followed, without interruption, telling the half empty but sympathetic benches about the House of Lords. There had been no allusion made to the disturbance, or to the motives that prompted it. Also she had lost her Suffragette rosette. It must have been torn off her, though she did not feel it go.

Mrs. Currie brought more life into the proceedings. She could get four porters to come to the next meeting, and could make another banner, as well as ensuring the proper unfurling of the first, which had stuck so unaccountably. It had waved quite properly when she had tried it an hour before, and it had waved quite properly (for it had been returned to her after she had been ejected) when she tried it again an hour later at home. Two banners expanding properly would be a vastly different affair from one that did not expand at all. Her husband had laughed fit to do himself a damage over her account of the proceedings.

A dozen more only of the league made an appearance, for clearly there was a reaction and a cooling after last night’s conflagration, but all paid their meed of appreciation to Mrs. Ames. Their little rockets had but fizzed and spluttered until she “showed them the way,” as Mrs. Currie expressed it. But to them even it was the ritual, so to speak, the disturbance, the shouting, the sense of doing something, rather than the belief that lay behind the ritual, which stirred their imaginations. Could the cause be better served by the endurance of an hour’s solitary toothache, than by waving banners in the town hall, and being humanely ejected by benevolent policemen, there would have been less eagerness to suffer. And Mrs. Ames would so willingly have passed many hours of physical pain rather than suffer the heartache which troubled her this morning. And nobody seemed to understand; Mrs. Currie with her four porters and two banners, Mrs. Brooks with her cold in the head and odour of eucalyptus, the cheerful Turners who thought it would be such a good idea to throw squibs on to the platform, were all as far from the point as General Fortescue, chatting at the club, or even as Lyndhurst with the high-chipped bacon and the slammed front door. It was a game to them, as it had originally presented itself to her, an autumn novelty for, say, Thursday afternoon from five till seven. If only the opposite effects had been produced; if they all had taken it as poignantly as Lyndhurst, and he as cheerily as they!

He, meantime, after slamming the front door, had stormed up St. Barnabas Road, in so sincere a passion that he had nearly reached the club before he remembered that he had hardly touched his breakfast or glanced at the paper. So, as there was no sense in starving himself (the starvation consisting in only having half his breakfast), he turned in at those hospitable doors, and ordered himself an omelette. Never in his life had he been so angry, never in the amazing chronicle of matrimony, so it seemed to him, had a man received such provocation from his wife. She had insulted the guests who had dined with her, she made a public and stupendous ass of herself, and when, next morning, he, after making such expostulations as he was morally bound to make, had been so nobly magnanimous as to assure her that he would patch it all up for her, and live it down with her, he had been told that it was for him to apologize! No wonder he had sworn; Moses would have sworn; it would have been absolutely wrong of him not to swear. There were situations in which it was cowardly for a man not to say what he thought. Even now, as he waited for his omelette, he emitted little squeaks and explosive exclamations, almost incredulous of his wrongs.

He ate his omelette, which seemed but to add fuel to his rage, and went into the smoking-room, where, over a club cigar, for he had actually forgotten to bring his own case with him, he turned to the consideration of practical details. It was not clear how to re-enter his house again. He had gone out with a bang that made the windows rattle, but it was hardly possible to go on banging the door each time he went in and out, for no joinery would stand these reiterated shocks. And what was to be done, even if he could devise an effective re-entry? Unless Amy put herself into his hands, and unreservedly took back all that she had said, it was impossible for him to speak to her. Somehow he felt that there were few things less likely to happen than this. Certainly it would be no good to resume storming operations, for he had no guns greater than those he had already fired, and if they were not of sufficient calibre, he must just beleaguer her with silence—dignified, displeased silence.

He looked up and saw that Mr. Altham was regarding him through the glass door; upon which Mr. Altham rapidly withdrew. Not long afterwards young Morton occupied and retired from the same observatory. A moment’s reflection enabled Major Ames to construe this singular behaviour. They had heard of his wife’s conduct, and were gluttonously feeding on so unusual a spectacle as himself in the club at this hour, and reconstructing in their monkey-minds his domestic disturbances. They would probably ascertain that he had breakfasted here. It was all exceedingly unpleasant; there was no sympathy in their covert glances, only curiosity.

No one who is not a brute, and Major Ames was not that, enjoys a quarrel with his wife, and no one who is not utterly self-centred, and he was not quite that either, fails to desire sympathy when such a quarrel has occurred. He wanted sympathy now; he wanted to pour out into friendly ears the tale of Amy’s misdeeds, of his own magnanimity, to hear his own estimation of his conduct confirmed, fairly confirmed, by a woman who would see the woman’s point of view as well as his. The smoking-room with these peeping Toms was untenable, but he thought he knew where he could get sympathy.

Millie was in and would see him; from habit, as he crossed the hall he looked to the peg where Dr. Evans hung his hat and coat, and, seeing they were not there, inferred that the doctor was out. That suited him; he wanted to confide and be sympathized with, and felt that Evans’ breezy optimism and out-of-door habit of mind would not supply the kind of comfort he felt in need of. He wanted to be told he was a martyr and a very fine fellow, and that Amy was unworthy of him....

Millie was in the green, cool drawing-room, where they had sat one day after lunch. She rose as he entered and came towards him with a tremulous smile on her lips, and both hands outstretched.

“Dear Lyndhurst,” she said. “I am so glad you have come. Sit down. I think if you had not come I should have telephoned to ask if you would not see me. I should have suggested our taking a little walk, perhaps, for I do not think I could have risked seeing Cousin Amy. I know how you feel, oh, so well. It was abominable, disgraceful.”

Certainly he had come to the right place. Millie understood him: he had guessed she would. She sat down close beside him, and for a moment held her hand over her eyes.

“Ah, I have been so angry this morning,” she said; “and it has given me a headache. Wilfred laughed about it all; he said also that what Amy did showed a tremendous lot of pluck. It was utterly heartless. I knew how you must be suffering, and I was so angry with him. He did not understand. Oh no, my headache is nothing; it will soon be gone—now.”

She faintly emphasized the last word, stroked it, so to speak, as if calling attention to it.

“I’m broken-hearted about it,” said Major Ames, which sounded better than to say, “I’m in a purple rage about it.” “I’m broken-hearted. She’s disgraced herself and me——”

“No, not you.”

“Yes; a woman can’t do that sort of thing without the world believing that her husband knew about it. And that’s not all. Upon my word I’m not sure whether what she did this morning isn’t worse than what you saw last night.”

Millie leaned forward.

“Tell me,” she said, “if it doesn’t hurt you too much.”

He decided it did not hurt him too much.

“Well, I came down this morning,” he said, “willing and eager to make the best of a bad job. So were we all: James Westbourne last night was just as generous, and asked the reporters to say nothing about it, and invited me to a day’s shooting next week. Very decent of him. As I say, I came down this morning, willing to make it as easy as I could. Of course, I knew I had to give Amy a good talking to: I should utterly have failed in my duty to her as a husband if I did not do that. I gave her a blowing-up, though not half of what she deserved, but a blowing up. Even then, when I had said my say I told her we would live it down together, which was sufficiently generous, I think. But, for her good, I told her that James Westbourne said he saw she was unwell, and that when a man says that he means that she is drunk. Perhaps Westbourne didn’t mean that, but that’s what it sounded like. And would you believe it, just because I hadn’t knocked him down and stamped on his face, she tells me I ought to apologize to her for letting such a suggestion pass. Well, I flared up at that: what man of spirit wouldn’t have flared up? I left the house at once, and went and finished my breakfast at the club. I should have choked—upon my word, I should have choked if I had stopped there, or got an apoplexy. As it is, I feel devilish unwell.”

Millie got up, and stood for a moment in silence, looking out of the window, white and willowy.

“I can never forgive Cousin Amy,” she said at length. “Never!”

“Well, it is hard,” said Major Ames. “And after all these years! It isn’t exactly the return one might expect, perhaps.”

“It is infamous,” said Millie.

She came and sat down by him again.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. If she apologizes, I shall forgive her, and I shall try to forget. But I didn’t think it of her. And if she doesn’t apologize—I don’t know. I can’t be expected to eat my words: that would be countenancing what she has done. I couldn’t do it: it would not be sincere. I’m straight, I hope: if I say a thing it may be taken for granted that I mean it.”

She looked up at him with her chin raised.

“I think you are wonderful,” she said, “to be able even to think of forgiving her. If I had behaved like that, I should not expect Wilfred to forgive me. But then you are so big, so big. She does not understand you: she can’t understand one thing about you. She doesn’t know—oh, how blind some women are!”

It was little wonder that by this time Major Ames was beginning to feel an extraordinarily fine fellow, nor was it more wonderful that he basked in the warm sense of being understood. But from the first Millie had understood him. He felt that particularly now, at this moment, when Amy had so hideously flouted and wronged him. All through this last summer, the situation of to-day had been foreshadowed; it had always been in this house rather than in his own that he had been welcomed and appreciated. He had been the architect and adviser in the Shakespeare ball, while at home Amy dealt out her absurd printed menu-cards without consulting him. And the garden which he loved—who had so often said, “These sweet flowers, are they really for me?” Who, on the other hand, had so often said, “The sweet-peas are not doing very well, are they?” And then he looked at Millie’s soft, youthful face, her eyes, that sought his in timid, sensitive appeal, her dim golden hair, her mouth, childish and mysterious. For contrast there was the small, strong, toad’s face, the rather beady eyes, the hair—grey or brown, which was it? Also, Millie understood; she saw him as he was—generous, perhaps, to a fault, but big, big, as she had so properly said. She always made him feel so comfortable, so contented with himself. That was the true substance of a woman’s mission, to make her husband happy, to make him devoted to her, instead of raising hell in the town hall, and insisting on apologies afterwards.

“You’ve cheered me up, Millie,” he said; “you’ve made me feel that I’ve got a friend, after all, a friend who feels with me. I’m grateful; I’m—I’m more than grateful. I’m a tough old fellow, but I’ve got a heart still, I believe. What’s to happen to us all?”

It was emotion, real and genuine emotion, that made Millie clever at that moment. Her mind was of no high order; she might, if she thought about a thing, be trusted to exhibit nothing more subtle than a fair grasp of the obvious. But now she did not think: she was prompted by an instinct that utterly transcended any achievement of which her brain was capable.

“Go back to your house,” she said, “and be ready for Cousin Amy to say she is sorry. Very likely she is waiting for you there now. Oh, Lyndhurst——”

He got up at once: those few words made him feel completely noble; they made her feel noble likewise. The atmosphere of nobility was almost suffocating....

“You are right,” he said; “you are always all that is right and good and delicious? Ha!”

There was no question about the cousinly relations between them. So natural and spontaneous a caress needed no explanation.

The house was apparently empty when he got back, but he made sufficiently noisy an entry to advise the drawing-room, in any case, that he was returned, and personally ready, since he did not enter “full of wrath,” like Hyperion, to accept apologies. Eventually he went in there, as if to look for a paper, in case of its being occupied, and, with the same pretext, strolled into his wife’s sitting-room. Then, still casually, he went into his dressing-room, where he had slept last night, and satisfied himself that she was not in her bedroom. Her penitence, therefore, which would naturally be manifested by her waiting, dim-eyed, for his return, had not been of any peremptory quality.

He went out into the garden, and surveyed the damage of last night’s rain. There was no need to punish the plants because Amy had been guilty of behaviour which her own cousin said was infamous: he also wanted something to employ himself with till lunch-time. As his hands worked mechanically, tying up some clumps of chrysanthemums which had a few days more of flame in their golden hearts, removing a dÉbris of dead leaves and fallen twigs, his mind was busy also, working not mechanically but eagerly and excitedly. How different was the sympathy with which he was welcomed and comforted by Millie from the misunderstandings and quarrels which made him feel that he had wasted his years with one who was utterly unappreciative of him. Yet, if Amy was sorry, he was ready to do his best. But he wondered whether he wanted her to be sorry or not.

At half-past one the bell for lunch sounded, and, going into the drawing-room, he found that she had returned and was writing a note at her table. She did not look up, but said to him, just as if nothing had happened—

“Will you go in and begin, Lyndhurst? I want to finish my note.”

He did not answer, but passed into the dining-room. In a little while she joined him.

“There seems to have been a good deal of rain in the night,” she said. “I am afraid your flowers have suffered.”

Certainly this did not look like penitence, and he had no reply for her. In some strange way this seemed to him the dignified and proper course.

Then Mrs. Ames spoke for the third time.

“I think, Lyndhurst, if we are not going to talk,” she said, “I shall see what news there is. Parker, please fetch me the morning paper.”

At that moment he hated her.