Her face flushed at the remembrance.  Archie had been very romantic in those days, quite foolishly so.  But somehow she had enjoyed it.

Wingarde said no more.  He rose directly the meal was over.  It was a perfect summer morning.  The view from the windows was exquisite.  Beyond the green stretches of the park rose peak after peak of sunlit mountains.  There were a few cloud-shadows floating here and there.  In one place, gleaming like a thread of silver, he could see a waterfall tumbling down a barren hillside.

Suddenly, through the summer silence, an octave of bells pealed joyously.

Nina started

“Why, it’s Sunday!” she exclaimed.  “I had quite forgotten.  We ought to go to church.”

Wingarde turned round.

“What an inspiration!” he said dryly.

His tone offended her.  She drew herself up.

“Are you coming?” she asked coldly.

He looked at her with the same cynical smile with which he had received her overture the night before.

“No,” he said.  “I won’t bore you with my company this morning.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“As you please,” she said, turning to the door.

He made no rejoinder.  And as she passed out, she realized that he believed she had suggested going to church in order to escape an hour of his hated society.  It was but a slight injustice and certainly not wholly unprovoked by her.  But, curiously, she resented it very strongly.  She almost felt as if he had insulted her.

She found him smoking in the garden when she returned from her solitary expedition, and she hoped savagely that he had found his own society as distasteful as she did; though on second thoughts this seemed scarcely possible.

She decided regretfully, yet with an inner sense of expediency, that she would spend the afternoon in his company.  But her husband had other plans.

“You have had a hot walk,” he said.  “You had better rest this afternoon.  I am going to do a little mountaineering; but I mean to be back by tea-time.  Perhaps when it is cool you will come for a stroll, unless you have arranged to attend the evening service also.”

He glanced at her and saw the indignant colour rise in her face.  But she was too proud to protest.

“As you wish,” she said coldly.

Conversation during lunch was distinctly laboured.  Wingarde’s silences were many and oppressive.  It was an unspeakable relief to the girl when at length he took himself off.  She told herself with a wry smile that he was getting on her nerves.  She did not yet own that he frightened her.

The afternoon’s rest did her good; and when he returned she was ready for him.

He looked at her, as she sat in the garden before the tea-table in her muslin dress and big straw hat, with a shade of approval in his eyes.

He threw himself down into a chair beside her without speaking.