While she stood, leaning with something of a forward tilt of her gracile figure, upon the ledge of the low, square window, the side door of the studio opened, letting a flood of light out upon the lawn, and with absent eyes she saw that her husband’s visitor was taking his leave.  Presently the door closed; the broad rays which had shone coldly from the skylight of the building died out, so abruptly that the change seemed almost audible; and simultaneously she heard her husband’s careless step in the long glazed passage, half conservatory, half corridor, which led from her domain to his.  He came in, softly humming an air from a comic opera, and then paused, peering into the darkness for an instant before he distinguished his wife’s shape in dusky relief against the pale square of window.

“Don’t light the room!” she said quickly, as she saw him stretch his hand towards the little button which controlled the electric light; “we can talk in the dark.”

He stopped with his hand on the porcelain knob, breaking off his ditty in the middle of a bar.

“By all means, if you like,” he said, “though I should prefer to see you, you know.”

Then he dropped luxuriously into an easy-chair by the side of the fire, which continued to exhibit a comfortable, glowing redness.

But very soon Lightmark became aware of a certain weight of apprehension, which took from him the power to enjoy these material comforts; unattractive possibilities seemed to hover in the silent darkness, and his more subtile senses were roused, and brought to a state of quivering tension, which was almost insupportable.  His wife moved, and he felt that she had directed her eyes towards him, though he could not see her; and he winced instinctively, seeking to be first to break the silence, but unable to find a timely word to say.  The blow fell, and even while she spoke he felt a quick admiration for the instinct which had enabled him to anticipate her thought.

“Dick,” she said quietly, without moving from her place by the window, “have you seen him since——?”

There was no need of names; he did not even notice the omission.  Could she see his face, he wondered, in the firelight?

“No!” he sighed, “no!”

She came nearer to him, so near that he could hear her breathing, the touch of her fingers upon the back of a chair; and presently she spoke again: 

“You think there was no excuse for him?”

“Ah—­for excuse!  She was pretty, you know!”

He got up, and stood facing her for a moment in the darkness, and then, while she appeared to consider, glanced at his watch, and made a suggestion of movement towards the door.

“Only a minute, Dick,” she said, in the same set voice.  “You will do me the justice to admit that I haven’t alluded to this before.  But I have been thinking—­I can’t help it—­and I want to know——­”

“To know?” he echoed impatiently.