True, it seemed to him that she ought to make the first advances toward an adjustment of their slight differences (quarrels they could scarcely be called; a slight coldness, a cessation of accustomed manifestations of conjugal affection, a few sharp or impatient words on each side), but he would be too generous to wait for that; he loved her dearly enough to sacrifice his pride to some extent; he could better afford that than the sight of her unhappiness.

In the mean time Zoe was bitterly repenting of the rebuff she had given him.  He had hardly closed the door when she started up, and ran to it to call him back, apologize for her curt refusal to go with him, and ask if she might still accept his invitation.  But it was too late:  he was already beyond hearing.

She could not refrain from another cry, and was very angry with herself for her petulance.  She regretted the loss of the drive, too, which would have been a real treat after the week of confinement to the house.

She had refused to comply with her husband’s request that she would go to Miss Deane and ask how she was:  now she repented, and went as soon as she had removed the traces of her tears.

“Ah! you have come at last!” was the salutation she received on entering the room where Miss Deane lay on a sofa, with the injured limb propped upon pillows.  “I began to fear,” sweetly, “that your delicate nerves had given way under the sight of my sufferings.”

“My nerves are not delicate,” returned Zoe coldly; “in fact, I never discovered that I had any; so please do not trouble yourself with anxiety on that account.  I trust the applications have relieved you somewhat.”

“Very little, thank you.  I suppose it was hardly to be expected that they would take effect so soon.  Ah, me!” she added with a profound sigh, “I fear I am tied to this couch for weeks.”

“No; do not disturb yourself with that idea,” said Zoe.  “The doctor told me you could easily be taken home in a few days in an ambulance.”

“I shall certainly avail myself of the first opportunity to do so,” said Miss Deane, her eyes flashing with anger, “for I plainly perceive that I have worn out my welcome.”

“No, not at all,” said Zoe; “at least, not so far as I am concerned.”  Miss Deane looked her incredulity and surprise, and Zoe explained,—­“I think I may as well be perfectly frank with you,” she said.  “You have not worn out your welcome with me, because I had none for you when you came.  How could I, knowing that you invariably make trouble between my husband and myself?”

“Truly, a polite speech to make to a guest!” sniffled Miss Deane.  “I hope you pride yourself on your very polished manners.”

“I prefer truth and sincerity.” said Zoe, “I shall do all I can to make you comfortable while you are here; and, if you choose to avoid the line of conduct I have objected to, we may learn to like each other.  I very well know that you do not love me now.”