I’VE had such a lovely letter from Rupert, Bertha. I’m so excited, I can’t read it almost!”

Bertha held out her hand. Madeline was looking agitated.

“He says,” said Madeline, looking closely at the letter in her short-sighted way, “that he wishes he could burn me like spice on the altar of a life-long friendship! Fancy!”

“Rather indefinite, isn’t it?”

“Oh, but listen!” And Madeline read aloud eagerly: “Yesterday evening was perfect: but to-day and for several days I shall be unable to see you. Why is a feast day always followed by a fast?”

“Is it Doncaster to-morrow?” asked Bertha.

“Don’t be absurd, that’s nothing to do with it. Listen to this. What a curiously interesting nature you have! Am I not right when I say that I fancy in time, as you develop and grow older, you may look at life eye to eye with me?”“Madeline dear, please don’t mistake that for a proposal. I assure you that it isn’t one.”

Madeline looked up sharply. “Who said it was? But, anyhow, it shows interest. He must be rather keen—I mean interested—in me. It’s all very well to say it means nothing, but for a man nowadays to sit down and write a long letter all about nothing at all, it must have some significance. Look how easily he might have rung up! I know you’re afraid of encouraging me too much, and it’s very kind of you—but I must confess I do think that letters mean a great deal. Think of the trouble he’s taken. And there’s a great deal about himself in it, too.”

“Of course, Madeline, I don’t deny that it does show interest, and he probably must be a little in love with someone—perhaps with himself—to write a letter about nothing. As you say, it’s unusual nowadays. But you mustn’t forget that, though Rupert’s young, he belongs to the ’95 period. Things were very different then. People thought nothing of writing a long letter; and a telegram about nothing was considered quite advanced and American.”

“Oh, bother!” said Madeline, “I hate being told about the period he belongs to. It makes it seem like ancient history. Listen to what he says about you—such lovely things! ‘Mrs. Kellynch is a delightful contrast to you, and is all that is charming and brilliant, in a different way. Is she not one of those (alas, too few) who are always followed by the flutes of the pagan world?’”

“That’s really very sweet of him. I say, I wonder what it means exactly?”

“I have no idea. But it just shows, doesn’t it?”

With a satisfied smile, Madeline put the letter away. Bertha did not press to see it, but remarked: “I see he didn’t sign himself very affectionately. Evidently there’s nothing compromising in the letter.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you put it away. Otherwise you would have shown it to me. Nobody cares to show an uncompromising love-letter—with a lukewarm signature.”

“At any rate,” said Madeline, gliding over the point and leaving the letter in its cover, “your taking us out last night was a very great help. I feel I’ve made progress; he thinks more of me.”

“Yes, I thought it would be a good thing to do. Now you’d better not answer the letter, and please don’t show any anxiety if you don’t see him for a little while, either.”

“I sha’n’t be a bit anxious, Bertha, especially if it’s only racing, or something of that sort. Or, in fact, anything, unless I get afraid he’s seeing Miss Chivvey. Do you ever think that Rupert still takes an interest in Miss Chivvey?”

“A little, but I don’t think it matters. I think she’s needed as a contrast to you. She surprises and shocks him, and that amuses him, but she isn’t his real taste. I don’t think Miss Chivvey’s dangerous, seriously. She uses cheap scent.”

“Oh!” cried Madeline, delighted. “There’s nothing so awful as cheap scent!”

“Except expensive scent, because it’s stronger,” said Bertha.

Madeline looked at her admiringly.

“How extraordinary you are, Bertha! It’s wonderfully sweet of you to take such an interest in my wretched little romance. You might have so many of your own, if you cared to.”

“Ah, but I don’t care to. I’m rather exacting in a way, but I don’t want variety. I’ve no desire for an audience. I don’t want a little of everybody. All I want is the whole of one person.”

“Is that all! Well, you’ve got it,” replied Madeline.

“I hope so,” she answered, rather seriously. “I’m not altogether satisfied. I can’t settle down to the idea of a dull, humdrum sort of life—and of Percy’s being fond of me casually.”

“Oh, good gracious, I’m sure he isn’t casual! What a strange idea of yours!”

“I hope I’m wrong. I believe I want something that’s very nearly impossible. I’ve always had a sort of ideal or dream of making an ordinary average married life into a romance.”

“Well, and can’t it be?”

“I don’t really see why it shouldn’t. But there’s no doubt there are immense difficulties in the way. It seems to be necessary, first of all, for there to be not only one exceptional temperament, but two. And that’s a good deal to expect. Of course, the obvious danger is the probability of people getting tired of anything they’ve got. I’m afraid that’s human nature. The toys the children see in the shop-window always seem much less wonderful when they’re home in the nursery. As a brother of mine used to say a little vulgarly, ‘You don’t run after an omnibus when once you’ve caught it.’”

“Perhaps not.”

“As soon as you belong to a person, obviously, Madeline, they don’t value you quite in the same kind of way. The glamour seems to go.”

“But you don’t want necessarily always to be run after, surely? You want to be treasured and valued—all that sort of thing.”“Yes, I know! But my ideal would be that there should be just as much excitement and romance and fun after marriage as before—if it were possible.”

“Oh, good heavens, Bertha! then, if one were to go by that horrible theory of your brother’s, one ought never to marry the person one loves, if one wants to keep them.”

“No, in theory, one ought not. But then, where are you if he goes and marries someone else? After all, you’d rather he got tired of you than of the other person! Wouldn’t you prefer he should make your life miserable than any other woman’s? Besides, one must take a risk. It’s worth it.”

“I should think it is, indeed!” cried Madeline. “Why, I would marry Rupert if I thought I should never see him again after a month or two—if I knew for a fact he would get tired of me!”

“Of course you would, and quite right too. But remember people are not all alike. There are any number of men who are absolutely incapable of being really in love with anyone who belongs to them. They simply can’t help it. It’s the instinct of the chase. And it’s mere waste of time and energy to attempt to change them.”

“Are you speaking of men or husbands?”“Either, really. But don’t let’s forget that there are a great many others, on the other hand, who care for nothing and no one who isn’t their own. Collectors, rather than hunters. Surely you’ve noticed that, Madeline? It’s a passion for property. The kind of man who thinks his house, his pictures, his cook, even his mother, everything connected with him must be better than the possessions of anyone else. Well, this kind of man is quite capable of remaining very devoted to his own wife, and in love with her, if she’s only decently nice to him; and even if she’s not. I mean the sort of man one sometimes sees at a party, pointing out some utterly insignificant person there, and declaring that Gladys or Jane, or whoever it is, takes the shine out of everyone else, and that there’s no one else in the room to touch her. His wife, of course. I don’t mean out of devotion—that’s another, finer temperament—but simply and solely because she belongs to him.”

“Well, Bertha, I don’t care what his reason is, I like that man!”

“Oh, rather! So do I. And very often he’s not a bit appreciated; though he would be by us. Perhaps the most usual case of all is for the husband, if he’s married for love, to remain in love for the first two or three years, and for the love then to turn gradually into a warm friendship, or even a deep affection, which may go on growing deeper—it’s only the romance and the glamour and sparkle that seems to go—the excitement. And that’s such a pity. I can’t help thinking in many cases it really needn’t be. More often than not, I believe, it’s the woman’s mistake. Just at first, she’s liable to take too much advantage of the new sort of power she feels.”

“Do you mean, Bertha, that the woman generally doesn’t take enough trouble with the house to make it pleasant for him at home—and all that?”

“I didn’t mean that, though it might be so. But sometimes it’s just the other way. More often than not she takes a great deal too much trouble about the home, and bothers him about it. There’s far too much domesticity. It’s like playing at houses at first, but soon it grows tedious. At any rate the whole thing is worth studying very deeply. I can tell you I haven’t given it up yet.”

“You? Oh, Bertha, I can’t think what fault you have to find. You, as you say, certainly are exacting.”

“I blame myself, solely. I feel that, somehow or other, I’ve allowed things to get too prosaic. Percy takes everything for granted: everything goes on wheels. Of course, if I were satisfied to settle down at twenty-eight with complete contentment at the prospect of a humdrum existence, it would be all right; but I’m not. In another few years Percy will be getting on very well as a barrister, taking himself seriously, and regarding me just as part of the furniture at home. You know he always calls me a canary; that shows his point of view. Well, then, he might get a little interested in a wilder kind of bird, and I shouldn’t like it!”

“What would your idea be, then? Would you flirt to make him jealous?”

“No, I certainly shouldn’t. That’s frightfully obvious and common. If I ever did flirt, it wouldn’t be for such a silly reason as that. It would be for my own amusement and for nothing else, but I don’t think I ever shall. I think it’s a fatal mistake for a woman to lower herself in any way in the other person’s eyes. Her lasting hold and best one, is that he must think her perfection; it’s the safest link with a really nice man. Anyone can be worse than you are, but it’s not easy when you take the line that none can be better! because no one else is going to try! But if, after all, he still gets tired of her, as they sometimes do, well—it’s very hard—but I am afraid she must manage badly.”

“I never should have dreamed you thought of all these things, Bertha. You seem so serene and happy.”“I am. It’s the one subject I ever worry about. I’m always prepared for the worst.”

“And I’m quite sure you’ve no cause to be. Why not wait till trouble comes?” suggested Madeline.

“Why, then it would be too late. No, I want to ward it off long before there’s any danger.”

“I think it’s very unlike you—almost morbid—bothering about possibilities that will never happen.”

“I daresay it is, in a way. But, you know, I fancy I’ve second sight sometimes. What I feel with us is that things are too smooth, too calm, a little dull. Something ought to happen.”

“You’re looking so pretty, too,” said Madeline rather irrelevantly.

“I’m glad to hear it; but I only want one person to think so.”

“But it’s obvious that he does; he’s very proud of you.”

“I sometimes think he’s too much accustomed to me. He takes me as a matter of course.”

“If that is so, I daresay you’ll be able to alter matters,” said Madeline, getting up to go.

“Yes, I daresay I shall; it only needs a little readjusting,” Bertha said.They shook hands in cordial fashion. They did not belong to the gushing school, and, notwithstanding their really deep mutual affection, neither would ever have dreamed of kissing the other.

As soon as Madeline had gone Bertha went and looked steadily and seriously in the glass, for some considerable time. She thought on the whole that it was true that she was looking pretty: on this subject she was perfectly calm, cool and unbiassed, as if judging the appearance of a stranger. For, though she naturally liked to be admired, as all women do, she was entirely without that fluffy sort of vanity, that weak conceit, so indulgent to itself, that makes nearly all pretty women incapable of perceiving when they are beginning to go off, or unwilling to own it to themselves.

The one person for whose admiration and interest she cared for more and more, her Percy, she fancied was growing rather cooler. This crumpled rose-leaf distressed her extremely.

At this moment he arrived home. She heard his voice and his step, and waited for him to come up, with an increasing vividness of colour and expression, with a look of excited animation, that in so sophisticated a woman was certainly, after ten years, a remarkable tribute to a husband.Percy, who was never very quick, was this evening much longer coming upstairs than usual. He was looking at the letters in the hall. With his long, legal-looking, handsome face, his even features, his fine figure and his expression of mild self-control, and the large, high brow, he had a certain look of importance. He appeared to have more personality then he really had. His manner was impressive, even when one knew—as Bertha certainly did—that he was the mildest, the most amiable and good-natured of serious barristers.

With one of those impulses that are almost impossible to account for, Percy took one of the letters up before the others. It was directed in type. He half opened it, then put it in his pocket. He felt anxious to read it; for some quite inexplicable reason he felt there was something about it momentous, and of interest. It was not a circular, or a bill. It made him feel uncomfortable. After waiting a moment he opened it and read part of it. Then he replaced it in his pocket, and ran up to his room, taking the other unopened letters with him.

“Percy!” called Bertha, as he passed the drawing-room.

“I shall be down in a few minutes,” he called out.

He went upstairs and shut himself into his room.She also felt unaccountably uncomfortable and anxious, as if something had happened, or was going to happen. Why was Percy so long?

When he came down at last she gave him his tea and a cigarette and noticed, or perhaps imagined, that he looked different from usual. He was pale. Yes, he was distinctly a little pale. Poor Percy!

Instead of telling him he was not looking very well, and asking him what was the matter, complaining that he had not taken any notice of her, or behaving otherwise idiotically, after the usual fashion of affectionate wives, she remained silent, and waited till he seemed more as usual.

Then he said: “Has anyone been here to-day?”

“No one but Madeline. She’s only just gone.”

“Oh yes—been out at all?”

“I went out this morning for a little while.”

He seemed absent.

“You enjoyed yourself last night, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Oh yes, it was rather fun. Yet, somehow, the Russian Ballet never leaves me in good spirits for the next day. It doesn’t really leave a pleasant impression somehow—an agreeable flavour.”“Doesn’t it—why?”

“One wants to see it, one is interested, from curiosity, and then, afterwards, there’s a sort of Dead Sea-fruitish, sour-grapes, autumn-leaves, sort of feeling! It’s too remote from real life and yet it hasn’t an uplifting effect. At any rate it always depresses me.”

He gave her a rather searching look, and then said:

“Did Hillier like it?”

“I think he enjoys everything. He’s always so cheery.”

“And to-night we’re dining at home?”

“Oh yes, I hope so. We’ll have a quiet evening.”

After a moment Percy said, in a slightly constrained way:

“I think I shall have to go out for half-an-hour. I want to see a man at the club.”

“Oh, must you? But it’s raining so much. Why don’t you ring him up and ask him to come here?”

She was anxious not to betray a womanish fear that he might be getting influenza, as she knew that nothing would annoy him so much as bothering about him.

“No; I must go out.”

She dropped the subject. He took up a new book she had been reading and talked about it somewhat pompously and at great length. The whole time it struck her he was not like himself. Something was wrong. He was either worried, or going to be ill. He had either a temper or a temperature. But she did not refer to it. Dinner was sometimes a good cure for such indispositions.

He continued to make conversation in a slightly formal way until he went out. After he had gone she observed to herself that his manner had varied from polite absent-mindedness to slight irritability. He had gone out without telling her anything about his plans. He had not even kissed her.