One afternoon in July he arrived thus upon his waiting wife at Machin House, Bleakridge.  And she could see that an idea was fermenting in his head.  Nellie understood him.  One of the most delightful and reassuring things about his married life was Nellie’s instinctive comprehension of him.  His mother understood him profoundly.  But she understood him in a manner sardonic, slightly malicious and even hostile, whereas Nellie understood him with her absurd love.  According to his mother’s attitude, Denry was guilty till he had proved himself innocent.  According to Nellie’s, he was always right and always clever in what he did, until he himself said that he had been wrong and stupid—­and not always then.  Nevertheless, his mother was just as ridiculously proud of him as Nellie was; but she would have perished on the scaffold rather than admit that Denry differed in any detail from the common run of sons.  Mrs Machin had departed from Machin House without waiting to be asked.  It was characteristic of her that she had returned to Brougham Street and rented there an out-of-date cottage without a single one of the labour-saving contrivances that distinguished the residence which her son had originally built for her.

It was still delicious for Denry to sit down to tea in the dining-room, that miracle of conveniences, opposite the smile of his wife, which told him (a) that he was wonderful, (b) that she was enchanted to be alive, and (c) that he had deserved her particular caressing attentions and would receive them.  On the afternoon in July the smile told him (d) that he was possessed by one of his ideas.

“Extraordinary how she tumbles to things!” he reflected.

Nellie’s new fox-terrier had come in from the garden through the French window, and eaten part of a muffin, and Denry had eaten a muffin and a half, before Nellie, straightening herself proudly and putting her shoulders back (a gesture of hers) thought fit to murmur: 

“Well, anything thrilling happened to-day?”

Denry opened the green sheet and read: 

“‘Sudden death of Alderman Bloor in London.’  What price that?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Nellie.  “How shocked father will be!  They were always rather friendly.  By the way, I had a letter from mother this morning.  It appears as if Toronto was a sort of paradise.  But you can see the old thing prefers Bursley.  Father’s had a boil on his neck, just at the edge of his collar.  He says it’s because he’s too well.  What did Mr Bloor die off?”

“He was in the fashion,” said Denry.

“How?”

“Appendicitis, of course.  Operation—­domino!  All over in three days.”

“Poor man!” Nellie murmured, trying to feel sad for a change and not succeeding.  “And he was to have been mayor in November, wasn’t he?  How disappointing for him.”

“I expect he’s got something else to think about,” said Denry.