she had been singing to those people whom her husband knew.  “For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”  And she had sung in the strange land, among the strange people, with her heart breaking with thoughts of the sea and the hills and the rude and sweet and simple ways of the old bygone life she had left behind her.

“Sheila!”

She thought it was her father calling to her, and she rose with a cry of joy.  For one wild moment she fancied that outside were all the people she knew—­Duncan and Scarlett and Mairi—­and that she was once more at home, with the sea all around her, and the salt, cold air.

“Sheila, I want to speak to you.”

It was her husband.  She went to the door, opened it, and stood there penitent and with downcast face.

“Come, you must not be silly,” he said with some kindness in his voice.  “You have had no dinner.  You must be hungry.”

“I do not care for any:  there is no use troubling the servants when I would rather lie down,” she said.

“The servants!  You surely don’t take so seriously what I said about them, Sheila?  Of course you don’t need to care what the servants think.  And in any case they have to bring up dinner for me, so you may as well come and try.”

“Have you not had dinner?” she said timidly.

“Do you think I could sit down and eat with the notion that you might have tumbled into the Thames or been kidnapped, or something?”

“I am very sorry,” she said in a low voice, and in the gloom he felt his hand taken and carried to her lips.  Then they went down stairs into the dining-room, which was now lit up by a blaze of gas and candles.

During dinner of course no very confidential talking was possible, and indeed Sheila had plenty to tell of her adventures at Richmond.  Lavender was now in a more amiable mood, and was disposed to look on the killing of the roebuck as rather a good joke.  He complimented Sheila on her good sense in having gone in at the Star and Garter for lunch; and altogether something like better relations was established between them.

But when dinner was finally over and the servants dismissed, Lavender placed Sheila’s easy-chair for her as usual, drew his own near hers, and lit a cigarette.

“Now, tell me, Sheila,” he said, “were you really vexed with me when you went up stairs and locked yourself in your room?  Did you think I meant to displease you or say anything harsh to you?”

“No, not any of those things,” she said calmly:  “I wished to be alone—­to think over what had happened.  And I was grieved by what you said, for I think you cannot help looking at many things not as I will look at them.  That is all.  It is my bringing up in the Highlands, perhaps.”

“Do you know, Sheila, it sometimes occurs to me that you are not quite comfortable here?  And I can’t make out what is the matter.  I think you have a perverse fancy that you are different from the people you meet, and that you cannot be like them, and all that sort of thing.  Now, dear, that is only a fancy.  There need be no difference if only you will take a little trouble.”