He could recall fifty occasions on which he could, or would, gladly have lost his head; but now, retrospecting, he was inclined to give himself the credit rather than Roselle, that their relations had been so innocuous.  And at the moment, although every second the boat brought him nearer to her, he felt strangely indifferent as to whether they met again or not.  He supposed that he might, perhaps, go to see her in this new play, and perhaps take her out to supper.

At four o’clock in the afternoon he was home.

He ran up the grey stone stairs like a boy and attained that dear old door, the portal of home.  Having mislaid his latchkey, he had listened eagerly, anticipating the sound of Marie’s feet flying down the hall.  Feet came with a sort of drilled haste, but no eagerness.

A smart maid-servant of superior type opened his door to him.

He stepped past her, staring somewhat, and the hall porter followed into the hall with the luggage.  The sitting-room door opened and Marie came out.

As she came towards her husband she motioned the hall porter to put the bags in the dressing-room.  There was about her an assurance and authority, very quiet, but undeniable.

“Here you are, Osborn,” she said.

“Hallo, dear!” he answered, rather stammeringly.  “How are you?  How are the—­”

The maid took from him the overcoat which he was shedding, and his wife retreated into the sitting-room, he following.

When the door was shut, she turned, lifted her face, and murmured:  “How are you, Osborn?”

He kissed her and, loth to relinquish her, kept his arm about her waist; she was unresponsive, but he did not notice that; they went together to the chesterfield drawn up before the fire and sat down.  She took a corner, turning herself to face him a little, so that he had to withdraw his arm from her, and she pushed a billowing cushion which he did not remember into a comfortable position for her back.

She spoke very kindly and sympathetically, but it was with the kindness and sympathy which someone who was a stranger might show.  “How well you look!  I’m longing to hear all about your doings; your letters did not say very much.  I should have met you at Victoria, only there’s always a crush, and it’s easy to miss people, so I thought I’d stay here.”

“I didn’t suppose you could leave the children to meet me.”

“Oh, I can leave them quite well with Ann.”

One of those silences which fall between people who have been estranged fell between them, during which he looked from her to the room, and all about him, and back to her, while she regarded him with that disinterested kindness.

“How nice everything looks!” he said, breaking the silence in a voice which sounded crude to himself.  “What a lot of flowers you have, and all these cushions!  I don’t remember things, as a woman would do, but surely there’s something new.”