The luncheon-gong rang through the house with a tremendous booming, and Vera Fielding, sitting limply in a chair by her open window, closed her eyes with drawn brows as if the sound were too much for her overwrought nerves. The tempest of three hours before had indeed left her spent and shaken, and an unacknowledged tincture of shame mingling with her exhaustion did not improve matters. She had wept away her fury, and a dull resentment sat heavily upon her. She had entered upon the second stage of the conflict which usually lasted for some days,—days during which complete silence reigned between her husband and herself until he either departed to town to end the tension or his wrath boiled up afresh cowing her into a bitter submission to his will which brought nothing but misery to them both.

The last deep notes of the gong died away, and Vera's eyes half-opened again. They dwelt restlessly upon the brilliant patch of garden visible under the lowered sun-blind. The splendour of the June world without served to increase the wretchedness of her mood by contrast. The sultry heat seemed to weigh her down. Life was one vast oppression and bondage. She was weary to the soul.

Juliet had gone down to aid Cox in the selection of something tempting for her luncheon. She had every intention of refusing it whatever it was. Who as miserable as she could bear to eat anything—unless forced to do so by brutal compulsion?

Her head throbbed painfully. Her nerves were stretched for the sound of her husband's step in the adjoining room. She wished she had told Juliet to lock the communicating door, though she hardly expected him to come in upon her a second time. Even his wrath had its limits. It seldom gathered to its full height twice in a day.

She was trying to comfort herself with this reflection when suddenly she heard him enter his room, and in a moment all her lassitude vanished in so violent an agitation that she found herself gasping for breath. Still she told herself that he would not come in. It had always been his habit to leave her severely alone after a battle. He would not come in! Surely he would not come in. And then the handle of the intervening door turned, and she sank back in her chair with a sick effort to appear indifferent.

She did not look at him as he came in. Only by the quick heaving of her breast which was utterly beyond control did she betray her knowledge of his presence. Her face was turned away from him. She stared down into the dazzling sunlight with eyes that saw nothing.

He came to her, halted beside her. And suddenly a warm sweet fragrance filled the air. She looked round in spite of herself and found a bunch of exquisite lilies-of-the-valley close to her cheek. She lifted her eyes with a great start.

"Edward!"

His face was red. He looked supremely ill at ease. He pushed the flowers under her nose. "Take 'em for heaven's sake!" he said irritably. "I hate the things myself."

She took them, too amazed for comment, and buried her face in their perfumed depths.

He stood beside her, impatiently clicking his fingers. There fell an uncomfortable silence, during which Vera gradually remembered her dignity and at length laid the flowers aside. Her agitation had subsided. She sat and waited noncommittally for the new situation to develop. Even in their engagement days he had never brought her flowers, and any overture from him after a quarrel was a thing unknown.

She waited therefore, not looking at him, and in a few moments, very awkwardly, with obvious reluctance, he spoke again.

"I don't think we want to keep this up any longer, do we? Seems a bit senseless, what? I'm ready to forget it if you are."

Again, she was taken by surprise, for his voice had a curious urgency that made her aware that he for one had certainly had enough of it, and there was that in her which leaped in swift response. But it was not to be expected of her that she should be willing to bury the hatchet at a moment's notice after the treatment she had received, and she checked the unaccountable impulse.

"There are some things that it is not easy to forget," she said coldly.

His demeanour changed in an instant. "Oh, all right," he said, "if you prefer to sulk!"

He swung upon his heel. In a moment he would have been gone; but in that moment the inner force that Vera had ignored suddenly sprang above every other emotion or consideration. She put out a quick hand and stayed him.

"I am not sulking! I never sulk! But I can't behave—all in a moment—as if nothing had happened. Edward!"

It was her voice that held pleading now, for he made as if he would leave her in spite of her detaining hold. She tightened her fingers on his arm.

"Edward, please!" she said.

He stopped. "Well?" he said gruffly. Then, as she said nothing further, he turned slowly and looked at her. Her head was bent. She was striving for self-control. Something in her attitude went straight to the man's heart. She looked so small, so forlorn, so pathetic in her struggle for dignity.

On a generous impulse he flung his own away. "Oh, come, my dear!" he said, and stooping took her into his arms. "I'm sorry. There!"

She clung to him then, clung closely, still battling to check the tears that she knew he disliked.

He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder with a queer compunction that had never troubled him before in his dealings with her.

"There!" he said. "There! That's all right, isn't it? We shall have Miss
Moore in directly. Where's your handkerchief?"

She found it and dried her eyes with her head against his shoulder. Then she lifted a still quivering face to his. "Edward,—I'm—just as sorry as you are," she said, with a catch in her voice.

He kissed her again, wondering a little at his own softened feelings. "All right, my girl. Let's forget it!" he said. "You have a good lunch and you'll feel better! What are they giving you? Champagne?"

"Oh no, of course not!"

"Well, why not? It's the very thing you want. Just the occasion. What? You sit still and I'll go and see about it!" He put her down among her cushions, but she clung to him still. "No, don't go for a minute!" she said, with a shaky smile. "It's so good to have you—kind to me for once."

"Good gracious!" he said, but half in jest. "Am I such a brute as all that?"

She pushed back her sleeve and mutely showed him the marks upon her arm.

He looked, and his brows drew together. "My doing?"

She nodded. "Last night—when—when I said—something you didn't like—about Mr. Green."

He scowled a moment longer, then abruptly stooped, took the white arm between his hands and kissed it. "I'll get a stick and beat you the next time," he said. "You remember that—and be decent to Green, see?"

The kiss belied the words, covering also a certain embarrassment which Vera was not slow to perceive. Because of it she found strength to abstain from further argument. He had undoubtedly conceded a good deal.

"I'll be decent to anyone," she said, "so long as you are decent to me."

"Hear, hear!" said the squire. "Now dry your eyes and be sensible! Miss Moore will go for me like mad if she finds you crying again. If we don't pull together we shall have that girl running the whole show before we are much older, and neither of us will ever dare even to contradict the other in her presence again. We shouldn't like that, should we?"

She laughed a little in spite of her wan countenance. "Oh, no, Edward. We mustn't risk that." Then, with a touch of anxiety, "It wasn't Miss Moore's idea that you should bring me flowers, was it?"

"No." The squire grinned at her suddenly. "The worthy Columbus was responsible for that. I found him routing in the lily-bed after snails or some such delicacy. He was so infernally busy he made me feel ashamed. So I went down on my knees and joined him, gathered the lot,—nearly killed myself over it, but that's an unimportant detail. Now for your champagne! You'll feel a different woman when you've had it."

He departed, leaving his wife looking after him with an odd wistfulness in her eyes. She was seeing him in a new light which made her feel strangely uncertain of herself also. Was it possible that all these years of misunderstanding, which she had regarded as inevitable, might have been avoided after all?

A quick sigh rose to her lips as again she took his flowers and held them against her face.