He was, to the outward seeing eye, superlatively well.  Three years of life lived in the open air, life lived according to the will of nature, had given him back his outward and visible health.  At thirty-nine, Majendie had once more the strength, the firm, upright slenderness, and the brilliance of his youth.  His face was keen and brown, fined and freshened by wind and weather.

Maggie, waiting humbly on his mood, saw that it was propitious.

“What cold hands,” said she.  “And no overcoat?  You bad boy.”  She felt his clothes all over to feel if they were damp.  “Tired?”

“Just a little, Maggie.”

She drew up his chair to the fire, and knelt down to unlace his boots.

“No, Maggie, I can’t let you take my boots off.”

“Yes, you can, and you will.  Does she ever take your boots off?”

“Never.”

“You don’t allow her?”

“No.  I don’t allow her.”

“You allow me” said Maggie triumphantly.  She was persuaded that (since his wife was denied the joy of waiting on him) hers was the truly desirable position.  Majendie had never had the heart to enlighten her.

She pressed his feet with her soft hands, to feel if his stockings were damp, too.

“There’s a little hole,” she cried.  “I shall have to mend that to-night.”

She put cushions at his back, and sat down on the floor beside him, and laid her head on his knee.

“There’s a sole for supper,” said she, in a dreamy voice, “and a roast chicken.  And an apple tart.  I made it.”  Maggie had always been absurdly proud of the things that she could do.

“Clever Maggie.”

“I made it because I thought you’d like it.”

“Kind Maggie.”

“You didn’t get any of those things yesterday, or the day before, did you?”

She was always afraid of giving him what he had had at home.  That was one of the difficulties, she felt, of a double household.

“I forget,” he said, a little wearily, “what I had yesterday.”

Maggie noticed the weariness and said no more.

He laid his hand on her head and stroked her hair.  He could always keep Maggie quiet by stroking her hair.  She shifted herself instantly into a position easier for his hand.  She sat still, only turning to the caressing hand, now her forehead, now the nape of her neck, now her delicate ear.

Maggie knew all his moods and ministered to them.  She knew to-night that, if she held her tongue, the peace she had prepared for him would sink into him and heal him.  He was not very tired.  She could tell.  She could measure his weariness to a degree by the movements of his hand.  When he was tired she would seize the caressing hand and make it stop.  In a few minutes supper would be ready, and when he had had supper, she knew, it would be time to talk.

Majendie was grateful for her silence.  He was grateful to her for many things, for her beauty, for her sweetness, for her humility, for her love which had given so much and asked so little.  Maggie had still the modest charm that gave to her and to her affection the illusion of a perfect innocence.  It had been heightened rather than diminished by their intimacy.