He rose and went to the writing-place, and prepared a place for her there.

Anne said nothing.  She was considering how far it was possible to oppose him.  It had always been his way to yield greatly in little things; to drift and let “things” drift till he created an illusory impression of his weakness.  Then when “things” had gone too far, he would rise, as he had risen now, and take his stand with a strength the more formidable because it came as a complete surprise.

“Come,” said he, “it’s got to be done; and you may as well do it at once and get it over.”

She gave one glance at him, as if she measured his will against hers.  Then she obeyed.

She handed the notes to him in silence.

“That’s all right,” said he, laying down her note to Gorst.  “And this couldn’t be better.  I’m glad you’ve written so charmingly to Mrs. Hannay.”

“I’m sorry that I ever seemed ungracious to her, Walter.  But the other note I wrote under compulsion, as you know.”

“I don’t care how you did it, my dear, so long as it’s done.”  He slipped the note to Mrs. Hannay into his pocket.

“Where are you going?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m going to take this myself to Mrs. Hannay.”

“What are you going to say to her?”

“The first thing that comes into my head.”

She called him back as he was going.  “Walter—­have you paid Mr. Hannay that money you owed him?”

He stood still, astounded at her knowledge, and inclined for one moment to dispute her right to question him.

“I have,” he said sternly.  “I paid it yesterday.”

She breathed freely.

Majendie found Mrs. Hannay by her fireside, alone but cheerful.  She gave him a little anxious look as she took his hand.  “Wallie,” said she, “you’re depressed.  What is it?”

He owned to the charge, but declined to give an account of himself.

She settled him comfortably among her cushions; she told him to light his pipe; and while he smoked she poured out consolation as she best knew how.  She drew him on to talk of Peggy.

“That child’s going to be a comfort to you, Wallie.  See if she isn’t.  I wanted you to have a little son, because I thought he’d be more of a companion.  But I’m glad now it’s been a little daughter.”

“So am I. Anne would have fidgeted frightfully about a son.  But Peggy’ll be a help to her.”

“And what helps her will help you, my dear; mind that.”

“Oh, rather,” he said vaguely.  “The worst of it is she isn’t very strong.  Peggy, I mean.”

“Oh, rubbish,” said Mrs. Hannay. “I was a peaky, piny baby, and look at me now!”

He looked at her and laughed.

“Sarah’s coming in this evening,” said she.  “I hope you won’t mind.”

“Why should I?”

“Why, indeed?  Nobody need mind poor Sarah now.  I don’t know what’s happened.  She went abroad last year, and came back quite chastened.  I suppose you know it’s all come to nothing?”