But his features were intended so manifestly to wear a look of cheerful self-esteem that his dejection, honest as it was, produced an effect of insincerity, and it seemed to Laura that his other and more natural expression was still lying somewhere beneath this superficial remorse.  Considered as physical bulk he was impressive, she admitted, in a large, ruddy, highly obvious fashion; then he appeared suddenly so stupid and child-like in his discomfiture that she felt her heart softening in spite of her convictions.  At the instant he resembled nothing so much as a handsome, good-humoured, but disobedient, dog patiently awaiting a reprimand.

“On my word I’m jolly glad,” he repeated, and stopped because he could think of nothing further to say that did not sound foolish in his own perturbed mind.

“Oh, I’m not utterly lacking in humanity,” retorted Gerty, “and one has to be not to admit a moral obligation to one’s hostess.  Besides,” she confessed, with smiling pleasantry, “I shall rather enjoy Ada Lawley’s face when she sees my gown.  She told me last night that she would never be caught wearing silver gauze again until she wanted to look every day as old as she really is.  It was rather hard on her, poor thing, for Arnold says she’d rather lose her character any day than her complexion—­not that she has very much of either left by now,” she corrected with her cutting laugh.

Before the studied insolence of her attack Perry drew back quickly in surprise, and his eyelids winked rapidly as if a lighted candle had flashed before them.  Then, with that child-like need of having his eyes opened, of being made to see, his attention was fastened upon the brilliant figure of his wife, and her beauty seemed at the moment to burn itself into his slow-witted brain.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, and again, “By Jove!”

“I’m glad you like it,” replied Gerty, with a careless shrug.  “I may not be a model woman from a domestic point of view, but at least I’ve managed to keep both my colour and my reputation.”  She crossed to the bureau, and opening a drawer took out a green and silver fan.  “I really needn’t trouble you to come, you know,” she remarked indifferently.  “Arnold will be there and I dare say he’ll be willing to come back in my carriage.”

“I dare say he will,” observed Perry, not without a jealous indignation, “and I dare say you’d be pleased enough if I’d let him.”

Gerty laughed as she closed the drawer with a bang.  “Well, I shouldn’t exactly mind,” she rejoined.

Reconciliation, such as it was, the brief reunion of suspicion and broken faith was apparently in rapid progress, and, filled with a pity not unmixed with disgust, Laura put on her fur coat and went slowly down the staircase.  The last sound that followed her was the flute-like music of Gerty’s laugh—­a little tired, heart-sick, utterly disillusioned laugh.

A man was going by on the sidewalk as she went out, and when the closing of the house door caused him instinctively to look up, she saw that it was Roger Adams.  He stopped immediately and waited for her until she descended the steps.