There was a deep, vertical line between Mr. Lorimer’s brows.  “And what may Piers Evesham be doing here?” he enquired.

“He comes often—­to see Jeanie,” murmured his wife deprecatingly.

He laughed unpleasantly.  “A vast honour for Jeanie!”

Two tears fell from Mrs. Lorimer’s eyes.  She began to feel furtively for her handkerchief.

“And Dr. Lennox Tudor,”—­he pronounced the name with elaborate care,—­“he comes—­often—­for the same reason, I presume?”

“He—­he came to see me yesterday,” faltered Mrs. Lorimer.

“Indeed!” The word was as water dropped from an icicle.

She dabbed her eyes and bravely turned and faced him.  “Stephen dear, I am very sorry.  I didn’t want to vex you unnecessarily.  I hoped against hope—­” She broke off, and knelt up before him, clasping his hand tightly against her breast.  “Stephen—­dearest, you said—­when our firstborn came—­that he was—­God’s gift.”

“Well?” Again that one, uncompromising word.  The vertical line deepened between her husband’s brows.  His eyes looked coldly back at her.

Mrs. Lorimer caught her breath on a little sob.  “Will not this little one—­be just as much so?” she whispered.

He began to draw his hand away from her.  “My dear Adelaide, we will not be foolishly sentimental.  What must be, must.  I am afraid I must ask you to run away now as I have yet to put the finishing touches to my sermon.  Perhaps you will kindly request young Evesham on my behalf to make a little less noise.”

He deliberately put her from him, and prepared to rise.  But Mrs. Lorimer suddenly and very unexpectedly rose first.  She stood before him, slightly bending, her hands on his broad shoulders.

“Will you kiss me, Stephen?” she said.

He lifted a grim, reluctant face.  She stooped, slipping her arms about his neck.  “My own dear husband!” she whispered.

He endured her embrace for a couple of seconds; then, “That will do, Adelaide,” he said with decision.  “You must not let yourself get emotional.  Dear me!  It is getting late.  I am afraid I really must ask you to leave me.”

Her arms fell.  She drew back, dispirited.  “Forgive me,—­oh, forgive me!” she murmured miserably.

He turned back to his writing-table, still frowning.  “I was not aware that I had anything to forgive,” he said.  “But if you think so,—­” he shrugged his shoulders, beginning already to turn the pages of his masterpiece—­“my forgiveness is yours.  I wonder if you would care to divert your thoughts from what I am sure you will admit to be a purely selfish channel by listening to a portion of this Advent sermon.”

“What is it about?” asked Mrs. Lorimer, hesitating.

“My theme,” said the Reverend Stephen, “is the awful doom that awaits the unrepentant sinner.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Mrs. Lorimer did an extraordinary thing.  She turned from him and walked to the door.