Romer walked back, trying to throw off the irritating effect of his mother's pin-pricks. As was his usual custom when he was a little depressed, he went home and sat down in front of his wife's portrait. He often sat there for an hour when she was out, looking at it. Any one watching him would have thought he was in a state of calm and stupid content. In reality, he was worshipping. His passion for his wife was his one romance, his one interest, his one thought. He had been married five years, and had never yet expressed it in words. He was one of the unfortunate people who are not gifted with the power of expression, either in word or look. He was practically inarticulate.

As he gazed at the picture—he was feeling a little sad—the sadness melted away. The frail figure, bright yet dim, vaguely appearing through vaporous curtains, holding an impossible gold flower, had the effect on him of a beautiful Madonna on a deeply devout Catholic. It produced in him a form of religious ecstasy. He adored her with passion, and with the selfishness and jealousy of passion, but circumstances and his temperament caused it to take the outward form, principally, of care for her happiness. When she was actually present, she still dazzled him so much that he could show his feeling only by listening to and agreeing with every word she said, by doing what she asked him, and by trying to protect her, often without her knowledge, from any kind of pain or trouble. She would have been amazed had she realised the violence of his devotion to her. Apparently cool and matter-of-fact, he was in reality a reticent fanatic. He neither analysed nor showed his sentiment, nor did he himself know its extent. He wondered why certain people, certain subjects gave him pain. He trusted Valentia absolutely, nor could she in his eyes do wrong, and it was only with the subconscious second sight of love that he sometimes felt a curious and melancholy presentiment. He did not know himself that this suffering was jealousy.

What nonsense his mother talked!...

Harry!... Harry was the best fellow in the world—almost like a brother, his greatest friend, though not exactly an intimate friend. Romer was too shy to be intimate with any one. Harry was lively, amusing, a brilliant talker; kind, good-natured, a capital chap. He appreciated Valentia, or he could not have painted that portrait. Romer was very grateful for the portrait; yet it sometimes hurt him to think Harry had painted it. It showed how well Harry understood Valentia.

This thought Romer always suppressed. He thought it was mean, and he could not be mean.

He looked out of the window. It was raining—a chilly spring shower—but there was a stir in the air, a rattle in the town, a sense of something that was going to happen; summer was not far off, and in the summer, at the end of the season, they would go down to the Green Gate, the lovely country house with the dream garden as Valentia called it, all built, planted, and arranged on purpose for her. Valentia was more herself at the Green Gate than anywhere else. Leisure suited her, and roses.

Every year Romer silently counted the weeks until they went back there. It was where he was happiest. Of course, they were not alone. Dear little Daphne was always with them, dear little thing (she was nearly six feet high)—and other people, very often, and Harry—always Harry. Perhaps Daphne would marry soon, but what about Harry?

Romer felt rather wearied when he remembered Valentia had said Harry was made to be a bachelor. Was he tired of Harry? Not a bit! Harry was a capital chap; besides, he didn't see so very much of him in London.

Heaps of people admired Valentia, and that did not annoy Romer at all (though it did not please him particularly), but he knew, again subconsciously, that Valentia cared less than nothing for any admirers, but she certainly was awfully fond of Harry. And no wonder! Harry was the best fellow in the world—lively, amusing, quite a brilliant talker; kind, good natured, and he appreciated Valentia, or he could not have painted that portrait....

Round and round the same thoughts passed through his brain.

It was raining—a chilly spring shower. Had Valentia got her wrap with her?

He got up, went into the hall, and saw her fur cloak hanging on a peg.

She evidently didn't care for it. She was tired of it—perhaps it was out of fashion; if so, she would never wear it. She might catch cold.

He was not a prompt man, but he went at once to the telephone and gave orders to a shop in Bond Street that would result in a collection of fur-lined cloaks being sent for her choice that evening. This would please her; she would smile and try them on. Besides, it would prevent her catching cold.