Caryl had taken a flat overlooking the river, and here they had settled down.  He spent the greater part of his day at the Law Courts, and Doris found herself thrown a good deal upon her own resources.  In happier days this had been her ideal, but for some reason it did not now content her.

Returning from her encounter with Mrs. Lockyard at the club, she told herself with sudden petulance that life in town had lost all charm for her.

Entering the dainty sitting-room that looked on to the river, she dropped into a chair by the window and stared out with her chin in her hands.  The river was a blaze of gold.  A line of long black barges was drifting down-stream in the wake of a noisy steam-tug.  She watched them absently, sick at heart.

Gradually the shining water grew blurred and dim.  Its beauty wholly passed her by, or if she saw it, it was only in vivid contrast to the darkness in her soul.  For a little, wide-eyed, she resisted the impulse that tugged at her heart-strings; but at last in sheer weariness she gave in.  What did it matter, a tear more or less?  There was no one to know or care.  And tears were sometimes a relief.  She bowed her head upon the sill and wept.

“Why, Doris!” a quiet voice said.

She started, started violently, and sprang upright.

Caryl was standing slightly behind her, his hand on the back of her chair, but as she rose he came forward and stood beside her.

“What is it?” he said.  “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not!” she declared vehemently.  “I wasn’t!  You—­you startled me—­that’s all.”

She turned her back on him and hastily dabbed her eyes.  She was furious with him for coming upon her thus.

He stood at the window, looking out upon the long, black barges in silence.

After a few seconds of desperate effort she controlled herself and turned round.

“I never heard you come in.  I—­must have been asleep.”

He did not look at her, or attempt to refute the statement.

“I thought you were going to be out this afternoon,” he said.

“So I was.  So I have been.  I went to the club to get my letters.”

“Didn’t you find any one there to talk to?” he asked.

“No one,” she answered somewhat hastily; then, moved by some impulse she could not have explained, “That is, no one that counts.  I saw Mrs. Lockyard.”

“Doesn’t she count?” asked Caryl, still with his eyes on the river.

“I hate the woman!” Doris declared passionately.

He turned slowly round.

“What has she been saying to you?”

“Nothing.”

Again he made no comment on the obvious lie.

“Look here,” he said.  “Can’t we go out somewhere to-night?  There is a new play at the Regency.  They say it’s good.  Shall we go?”

The suggestion was quite unexpected; she looked at him in surprise.

“I have promised Vera to dine there,” she said.