Mr. Chalk made but a poor breakfast next morning, the effort to display a feeling of proper sympathy with Mrs. Chalk, who was presiding in gloomy silence at the coffee-pot, and at the same time to maintain an air of cheerful innocence as to the cause of her behaviour, being almost beyond his powers.  He chipped his egg with a painstaking attempt to avoid noise, and swallowed each mouthful with a feeble pretence of not knowing that she was watching him as he ate.  Her glance conveyed a scornful reproach that he could eat at all in such circumstances, and, that there might be no mistake as to her own feelings, she ostentatiously pushed the toast-rack and egg-stand away from her.

“You—­you’re not eating, my dear,” said Mr. Chalk.

“If I ate anything it would choke me,” was the reply.

Mr. Chalk affected surprise, but his voice quavered.  To cover his discomfiture he passed his cup up for more coffee, shivering despite himself, as he noticed the elaborate care which Mrs. Chalk displayed in rinsing out the cup and filling it to the very brim.  Beyond raising her eyes to the ceiling when he took another piece of toast, she made no sign.

[Illustration:  “He passed his cup up for more coffee.”]

“You’re not looking yourself,” ventured Mr. Chalk, after a time.

His wife received the information silence.

“I’ve noticed it for some time,” said the thoughtful husband, making another effort.  “It’s worried me.”

“I’m not getting younger, I know,” assented Mrs. Chalk.  “But if you think that that’s any excuse for your goings on, you’re mistaken.”

Mr. Chalk murmured something to the effect that he did not understand her.

“You understand well enough,” was the reply.  “When that girl came whistling over the fence last night you said you thought it was a bird.”

“I did,” said Mr. Chalk, hastily taking a spoonful of egg.

Mrs. Chalk’s face flamed.  “What sort of bird?” she demanded.

“Singin’ bird,” replied her husband, with nervous glibness.

Mrs. Chalk left the room.

Mr. Chalk finished his breakfast with an effort, and then, moving to the window, lit his pipe and sat for some time in moody thought.  A little natural curiosity as to the identity of the fair whistler would, however, not be denied, and the names of Binchester’s fairest daughters passed in review before him.  Almost unconsciously he got up and surveyed himself in the glass.

“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said to himself, in modest explanation.

His mind still dwelt on the subject as he stood in the hall later on in the morning, brushing his hat, preparatory to taking his usual walk.  Mrs. Chalk, upstairs listening, thought that he would never have finished, and drew her own conclusions.

With the air of a man whose time hangs upon his hands Mr. Chalk sauntered slowly through the narrow by-ways of Binchester.  He read all the notices pasted on the door of the Town Hall and bought some stamps at the post-office, but the morning dragged slowly, and he bent his steps at last in the direction of Tredgold’s office, in the faint hope of a little conversation.