Mannering lit a cigarette which he had just taken from his case.

“I don’t think I should,” he remarked.

She turned her head slowly, and looked at him.

“Why not?” she asked.  “How can it concern you?  Your plans for the afternoon are, I presume, already made!”

“It may not concern me directly,” he answered, “but I have an idea that Mr. Englehall is not exactly the sort of person I care to have you driving about with.”

She laughed hardly.

“I am most flattered by your interest in me,” she declared.  “Pray consider Mr. Englehall disposed of.  You have some other plans, perhaps?”

“If you care to,” he said, “we will walk down to the club for lunch and come home by the sea.”

“Alone?”

“Certainly!  Unless you choose to bring Hester.”

She rose slowly to her feet.

“No,” she said.  “Let us go alone.  It will be almost the first time since we were married, I think.  I am curious to see how much I can bore you!  Will you wait here while I find a hat?”

She disappeared inside the hotel.  Mannering watched her absently.  In a vague sort of way he was wondering what it was that had made their married life so completely a failure.  He had imagined her as asking very little from him, content with the shelter of his name and home, content at any rate without those things of which he had made no mention when he had spoken to her of marriage.  And he was becoming gradually aware that it was not so.  She expected, had hoped for more.  The terms which he had zealously striven to cultivate with her were terms of which she clearly did not approve.  The signs of revolt were already apparent.

Mannering became absorbed in thought.  He remembered clearly the feelings with which he had gone to her and made his offer.  He went over it all again.  Surely he had made himself understood?  But then there was her confession to him, the confession of her love.  He had ignored that, but it was unforgetable.  Had he not tacitly accepted the whole situation?  If so, was he doing his duty?  The shelter of his name and home, what were those to a warm-hearted woman, if she loved him?  He had married her, loving another woman.  She must have known this, but did she understand that he was not prepared to make any effort to accept the inevitable?  He was still deep in thought when Berenice came out.

“What are you doing there all by yourself?” she asked.  “Where is your wife?”

“She has gone to get a hat,” he answered.  “We thought of going to the club for dejeuner.”

She nodded.

“A delightful idea,” she said.  “Do invite me, and I will take you in the car.  Mrs. Mannering likes motoring, I know.”

“Of course!” he said.  “We shall be delighted!”

She beckoned to her chauffer, who was in the courtyard.  Just then Blanche came out.  She had changed her gown for one of plain white serge, and she wore a hat of tuscan straw which Mannering had once admired.