But though Stanistreet was always hanging about Ridgmount Gardens, he was no nearer solving the problem that had perplexed him.  And yet his views of women had undergone a change; he was not the same man who had discussed Molly Wilcox in the billiard-room at Thorneytoft three years ago.  One thing he noticed which was new.  Mrs. Nevill Tyson was not literary; but whenever he called now he always found her sitting with some book in her hand, which she instantly hid behind the cushions of her chair.  Stanistreet unearthed three of these volumes one day.  They were “Barrack-Room Ballads,” “With Gordon in the Soudan,” “India:  What it can Teach Us”—­a work, if you please, on Vedic philosophy, annotated in pencil by Tyson.  Now Stanistreet had brought “Barrack-Room Ballads” into the house; Stanistreet had been with Gordon, in the Soudan; Stanistreet—­no, Stanistreet had not been in India; but he might have been.  He was immensely amused at the idea of Mrs. Nevill Tyson cultivating her mind.  Poor little soul, how bored she must have been!

There could be no possible doubt about the boredom.  Mrs. Nevill Tyson turned from reading to talking with obvious relief.  Their conversation had taken a wider range lately; it was more intimate, and at the same time less embarrassing.  He wondered how often she thought of that scene in the library at Thorneytoft; she had behaved ever since as if it had never happened.  For one thing Stanistreet was thankful—­she had left off discussing Nevill with him.  If she had ever been in ignorance, she now knew all that it concerned her to know.  Not that she avoided the subject; on the contrary, it seemed to have floated into the vague region of general interest, where any chance current of thought might drift them to it.  Stanistreet dreaded it; but she was continually brushing up against it, with a feathery lightness which made him marvel at the volatile character of her mind.  Was it the clumsiness of a butterfly or the dexterity of a woman?  Once or twice he thought he detected a certain reluctant shyness in approaching the subject directly.  It was as if she regarded her affection for her husband as a youthful folly, and her marriage as a discreditable episode of which she was now ashamed.

On the other hand, she was always ready to talk about Stanistreet and his doings.  She would listen for hours to his mess-room stories, his descriptions of the people and the places he had seen, the engagements he had taken part in.  For a whole evening one Sunday they had talked about nothing but fortification.  Now it was impossible that Mrs. Nevill Tyson could be interested in fortification.  As for Vedic philosophy, she cared for Brahma about as much as Stanistreet did for Brahms.