In her lonely hours—­and they were many—­she thought constantly of Wargrave; his face was ever before her, his voice sounding in her ears.  She usually saw her husband—­absorbed in his work and studies—­only at meals; and as she looked across the table at him then she could not help contrasting the heavy, unattractive man sitting silent, usually reading a book while he ate, with the good-looking, laughter-loving playfellow who had come into her life.  She learned to day-dream of Wargrave, to watch for his coming and hate his going, to enjoy every moment of his presence.  He had brought a new interest into her hitherto purposeless life, the life that he had preserved and that consequently seemed to belong to him.  New feelings awakened in her.  The world was a brighter, happier place than it had been.  It pleased her to realise what it all meant, to know that the novel sensations, the fluttering hopes and fears, the strange, delightful thrills, were all symptoms of that longed-for malady that comes sooner or later to all women.  She knew at last that she loved Wargrave and gloried in the knowledge.  And she never doubted that he loved her in return.

Did he?  It was hard to tell.  To a man the thought of Love in the abstract seldom occurs; and the realisation of the concrete fact that he is in love with some particular woman generally comes somewhat as a shock.  He is by nature a lover of freedom and in theory at least resents fetters, even silken ones.  And Wargrave had never thought of analysing his feelings towards Violet.  He was not a professional amorist and, although not a puritan, would never set himself deliberately to make love to a married woman under her husband’s roof.  He was fond of Mrs. Norton—­as a sister, he thought.  She was a delightful friend, a real pal, so understanding, so companionable, he said to himself frequently.  It had not occurred to him that his feelings for her might be love.  He had often before been on terms of friendship with women, married and single; but none of them had ever attracted him as much as she did.  He had never felt any desire to be married; domesticity did not appeal to him.  But now, as he watched Violet moving about her drawing-room or playing to him, he found himself thinking that it would be pleasant to return to his bungalow from parade and find a pretty little wife waiting to greet him with a smile and a kiss—­and the wife of his dreams always had Violet’s face, wore smart well-cut frocks like Violet’s, and showed just such shapely, silken-clad legs and ankles and such small feet in dainty, silver-buckled, high-heeled shoes.  And he thought with an inward groan that such a luxury was not for a debt-ridden subaltern like him, that his heavily-mortgaged pay would not run to expensive gowns, silk stockings and costly footwear.

Yet it never occurred to him that Violet cared for him nor did it enter his mind to try to win her love.  But he felt that he would do much to make her happy, that saving her life made him in a way responsible for it in future; and he knew that she was not a contented woman.  His sympathy went out to her for what he guessed she must suffer from her ill-assorted union.