THE first six months after his marriage it used to give Nigel a thrill of gratification and vanity to go home to his house, one of the finest in Grosvenor Street, and splendidly kept up. Then he had suddenly grown horribly sick of it, longed for freedom in a garret, and now he associated it with no thrill of pride or pleasure, but with boredom, depression, quarrels and lack of liberty. Liberty! Ah! That was it; that was what he felt more than anything else. He had married for money chiefly to get liberty. One was a slave, always in debt—but it was much worse now. The master of the house lost all his vitality, gaiety and air of command the moment he came into the hall.

“Where’s Mrs. Hillier?”

“Mrs. Hillier is in the boudoir, sir.”

The boudoir was a little pink and blue Louis Seize room on the ground floor, opposite the dining-room. From the window Mary could watch for Nigel. That was what she always did. She hardly ever did anything else. Few women were so independent of such aids to idleness as light literature (how heavy it generally is!), newspapers, needlework or a piano. Few people indeed had such a concentrated interest in one subject. She was sitting in an arm-chair, with folded hands, looking out of the window. It was a point of vantage, whence she could see Nigel arrive more quickly than from anywhere else.

As soon as he caught the first glimpse of her at the window it began to get on his nerves. It was maddening to be waited for. …

“You’re five minutes late,” she said abruptly, as he came in. She always spoke abruptly, even when she wanted to be most amiable. He was determined not to be bad-tempered, and smiled good-naturedly.

“Am I? So sorry.” He was very quick and rapid in every word and movement, but soft and suave—never blunt, as she was.

“Where have you been?”

“I went to look at those pictures in Bond Street,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

He had come straight from seeing Bertha—on the subject of Madeline and Rupert—but he never thought of telling her that.“Oh! Why didn’t you take me?”

“I really don’t know. I didn’t think of it, I suppose. We’ll go another day.”

He sat down opposite her and began to smoke a cigarette, having permission always. She sat staring at him with clasped hands and eager eyes.

Bertha’s description of her as having flat red hair, a receding chin and long ear-rings was impressionistically accurate. It was what one noticed most. Mrs. Hillier was plain, and not at all pleasant-looking, though she had a pretty figure, looked young, and might have been made something of if she had had charm. There was something eager, sharp and yet depressed about her, that might well be irritating.

She got up and came and stood next to Nigel; playing with his tie, a little trick which nearly drove him mad, but he was determined to hide it. When he couldn’t bear it any longer he said: “That will do, dear.”

She moved away.

“How do you mean ‘that will do’?”

“Nothing; only don’t fidget.”

“You’re nervous, Nigel. You are always telling me not to fidget.”

“Am I? Sorry. Where are the children?”

“Never mind the children for a minute. They’re out with Mademoiselle.”“Seen much of them to-day?”

“They came in to lunch. No, I have not, as a matter of fact. Do you expect me to spend my whole time with children of eight and nine?”

He didn’t answer, but it was exactly what he really did expect, and would have thought perfectly natural and suitable.

“Some women,” continued Mary, “seem to care a great deal more for their children than they do for their husbands. I’m not like that—I don’t pretend to be.”

Nigel already knew this, to his great regret.

“I care more for you than I do for the children,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“What do you mean by ‘Yes’?”

“I was assenting: that’s all. I meant—that you’ve told me all this before, my dear. Haven’t you?”

“Do you object? Do you mind my caring more for you than for the children?”

“If I object to anything it’s only to your repeating yourself. I mean—we’ve had all this; haven’t we?”

“Nigel, are you trying to quarrel with me for loving you better than the children?”

Nigel turned pale with irritation but controlled himself and stood up and looked out of the window.“Not in the least. It’s most flattering. I only don’t want to be told it every time I see you. … I mean that of course I should think it perfectly natural if you were fond of the children too.”

“I am fond of them,” she answered, “but they are not everything to me. They don’t fill up my whole time and all my thoughts. They won’t do instead of you.”

“No one suggested that, I think. Have you been for a drive to-day?”

“No—I haven’t.”

“What a funny woman you are, Mary! You might as well not have a motor for all the use you make of it.”

“I had nowhere to go.”

He looked at some invitation cards on the mantelpiece. “Oh, my dear, that’s absolute nonsense. You mean you don’t care to go anywhere. It is extraordinary, how you drop people, Mary! When we first came to this house we had a lot of parties and things. Now you never seem to care for them.”

“It’s quite true,” she answered. “We did have parties and things. They made me miserable. I hated them.”

“Rather odd; aren’t you?”

“I hated them and loathed them,” she continued. “For it only meant there were crowds of women who tried to flirt with you.”“That’s an idÉe fixe of yours, my dear. Pure fancy, you know.”

“Well; all I know is I hated to see you talking to the women who came here. I tell you, quite frankly, that’s the reason why I’ve given up accepting invitations and giving them. Of course, if you insist, I will. I would do anything you told me.”

“Oh, good God, no! Let’s cut out the parties, then. Don’t have them for me! I thought it would be fun for you. … What do you do all day, Mary, if I may ask? You never seem to have any shopping—or hobbies—or anything that other women have to do.”

“I do the housekeeping in the morning,” she said; “I see cook and look after everything to make things as you like.”

“And I’m sure you do it very well indeed. But it doesn’t take long; and after that——?”

“I sit in that chair looking out of the window for you.”

He bit his lip impatiently, trying not to be irritable.

“It’s very nice of you, Mary, I’m sure. But I do wish you wouldn’t!”

“Why not? Don’t you like me to be waiting for you?”

“No—I don’t. I should like to think you were enjoying yourself; having a good time.”“Well, I shouldn’t do it if you took me out with you always.”

“My dear, I’m always delighted to take you with me, but I can’t take you everywhere.”

“Where can’t you take me?”

“Well—to the club!” He smiled, and took up a newspaper.

“I suppose you must go to your club sometimes,” she said rather grudgingly. “But tell me, Nigel, would you like us to go in more for society again as we used at first?”

He thought a moment. There were more quarrels when they saw more people—in fact, the fewer people they met the fewer subjects arose for scenes.

“Well,” he said, “suppose you give just one party this year. Just to ‘keep our circle together,’ as they say—then we can stop it again, if you like.”

“What sort of party?”

“Any sort. Musical, if you like.”

“Oh! that means having horrid singers and players, and performers! I don’t like that set, Nigel.”

“All right. Let’s give a dance. We’ve got a splendid floor.”

“A dance? Oh no. I don’t dance; and I couldn’t bear to see you dancing with anyone.”“This is all very flattering, my dear, but you know you’re really rather absurd. Girls wouldn’t be fighting to dance with an old married man like me. Altogether,—the way you regard me,—the way you imagine I’m the marked-down prey of every woman you know,—would be too comical if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

“Oh, really? So you say! You’re thirty-five;—you’re better-looking than ever.”

“Thanks. It’s very kind of you to think so.” He laughed rather contemptuously. “What a fatuous idiot I should be if I believed you. But—to go back to what we were talking about—it really is in a way rather a pity you’re gradually dropping everybody like that. It seems to me that one should either have a cosy, clever, interesting little set of amusing and really intimate friends; or else, a large circle of acquaintances; or both. I’m not speaking of parties, for me. No man of course cares about all that sort of rot; it’s only for you; women like going out as a rule.”

“I didn’t care much about the sort of society you introduced me to when we first married. I didn’t like any of them much.”

“What’s the matter with them?” he asked. He knew she had always felt morbidly and bitterly out of it because she mistakenly believed that everybody was interested in the fact that her grandfather had made a fortune in treacle, and that her husband was Lord Wantage’s nephew. As a matter of fact, no one who came to the house cared in the slightest degree about either of these circumstances (even if they knew them) but merely wished candidly to enjoy themselves in a large, jolly, hospitable house, owned by a very attractive man with a large number of amusing friends and, apparently, a harmless and good-natured little wife. Mary detested and soon put a stop to intimate or Bohemian friends who sat up all night smoking, talking art or literature, or being musical; and she managed rapidly to reduce their circle to a much smaller one at a much greater distance. She had not a single intimate friend. With women she only exchanged cards. “What’s wrong with them all?” Nigel repeated, for he was beginning to lose patience.

“Oh! their manners are all right. If you really want to know what I think of the whole set—I mean that sort of half-clever, half-smart set you were in—the barristers and writers, artists, sporting and gambling men, and women mad on music and the theatre—well, it is that the men are silly and frivolous, and the women horrid and—and fast! Some are cold and just as hard as nails, others are positively wicked! I admit most of the men have nice manners and the women are not stupid. They all dress well.”

Nigel was silent a moment.

“Well, after all, if you don’t like them, why should you see them?” he said, good-naturedly enough. He did not feel inclined to defend all his acquaintances. “But may I ask, do you consider that this set, as you call it, lead a useless life?”

“Yes; of course I do.”

“Oh! Good. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“I see what you mean quite well,” she said, walking up and down the room. “You think I lead a useless life—that I’m not accomplished or literary or even domestic, or social. You think I lead an empty life with all my money.”

“Well, why shouldn’t you, if you like it? But I wish you enjoyed it yourself more, that’s the point.”

“I can never enjoy myself—if you want to know, Nigel—except when I’m with you; and even then I’m often not happy, because I think you don’t care to be with me.”

“Oh, Mary! really! How awful you are! What rot all this is! I can’t say more than that you can do whatever you like from morning to night, and that I don’t wish to interfere with you in any possible way.”“But I should like you to be with me more.”

He restrained the obvious retort (that she didn’t make herself agreeable).

“Well, I am with you.” He humoured her gently.

“Yes—at this moment.”

“Aren’t we going to dine together?”

“Yes, we are. But about an hour afterwards I know you’ll find some sort of excuse either to go out, or to go into the library and read. Why can’t you read while I’m looking at you? Why not?”

“Don’t be always looking forward, meeting troubles half way,” he said jokingly. “Perhaps I sha’n’t read.” Then, after a moment’s pause: “Excuse my saying so, my dear, but if you sometimes read a book, or the papers, or saw more people, you would have more to tell me when we did meet, wouldn’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter about that. You can tell me what you’ve been reading or seeing. Who did you see at the picture gallery? Was Mrs. Kellynch there?”

“Look here”—he was looking at the paper—“would you like to go to the opera after dinner? Let’s go one of these days soon.”

“No; I shouldn’t like it at all.”

He stared at her in surprise.“Why not, pray? I thought you enjoyed it the other night?”

“You enjoyed it,” she replied.

“I thought you seemed rather pleased with yourself when we went out, with all your furs and tiaras and things. You looked very smart,” he said pleasantly.

“Well, I tell you I hated it, Nigel.”

“And why?”

Mary was at least candid, and she spoke bluntly.

“Because we met Mrs. Kellynch; and you talked to her and seemed pleased to see her.”

“Oh, good heavens! I can hardly cut dead all the women I ever knew before we were married.”

“Do you think her pretty?” said Mary.

“Yes, of course I do; and so does everyone. She is pretty. It’s a well-known fact. But what does it matter? It’s of no interest to me.”

“Are you sure it isn’t? Didn’t you tell me you were almost engaged once?”

“Oh, do let’s drop the prehistoric,” he entreated, appearing bored. “Never mind about ancient history now. She’s married and seems very happy.” (He stopped himself in time from saying like us.) “Kellynch is a very good sort.”

“Is he? Do you envy him?”“Mary, really, don’t be absurd. Let me tell you that there’s not one man in a hundred who could stand …” and he moved a step farther away.

“Could stand what?” She came nearer to him. “My caring for you so much?”

Half-a-minute passed in something near torture, as she played with his tie again, and he controlled himself and spoke with a determinedly kind smile.

“Go along and dress for dinner,” he said.

“What shall I wear?”

“Oh! Your pretty yellow teagown,” he answered.

She could not go out in that, he was reflecting, and if he suddenly wanted to go for a walk——

“Very well, Nigel. Oh, dear Nigel! I don’t mean to be disagreeable.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he answered, “let’s leave it at that, my dear.”

“All right,” she said smiling, and went away, with a rather coquettish kiss of the hand to him.

He opened the door and shut it after her, with gallant attention. Then he threw up his arms with a despairing gesture.

“My God! What a woman! Why—why was I such a fool? … How much longer can I bear it?”The Hilliers’ relatives and intimate friends often said cheerfully about them: “Mary is very fond of Nigel, but she rather gets on his nerves.”

No one seemed yet to have discovered that there was a large double tragedy in that simple, commonplace sentence.