He had perceived what he called her innocent design, her transparent effort to lead him to her heavenly heights.  He had lent himself to it, tenderly, gravely, as he would have lent himself to a child’s heart-rending play.  He could not profess to follow the workings of his wife’s mind, but he did understand her point of view.  She had been “let in” for something she had not expected, and he was bound to make it up to her.

There had been a week of concessions, crowned by his appearance at St. Saviour’s.

But that was on a Sunday.  This was Wednesday, and he drew the line at Wednesdays.

Oh yes, he saw her drift.  He knew that what she expected of him was incessant penitence.  But, after all, it was difficult to feel much abasement for a fault committed quite a number of years ago and sufficiently repented of at the time.  He had settled his account, and it was hard that he should be made to pay twice over.  To-night his mood was strangely out of harmony with Lent.

Anne slackened her pace to intimate as much to him.  Whereupon he lapsed into strange and disturbing legends of his childhood.  He told her he had early weaned himself from the love of Lenten Services, observing their effect upon the unfortunate lady, his aunt, who had brought him up.  Punctually at twelve o’clock on Palm Sunday, he said, the poor soul, exhausted with her endeavours after the Christian life, would fly into a passion, and punctually would rise from it at the same hour on Easter Day.  For quite a long time he had believed that that was why they called it Passion Week.

She moaned “Oh, Walter—­don’t!” as if he had hurt her, while she repressed the play of a little, creeping, curling, mundane smile.

If he would only leave her!  But, as they crossed to the curbstone, he changed over, preserving his proper place.  He leaned to her with the indestructible attention of a lover.  His whole manner was inimitably chivalrous, protective, and polite.

Anne hardened her heart against him.  At the church gate she turned and faced him coldly.

“If you’re not going in,” said she, “you needn’t come any further.”

He glanced at the belated group of worshippers gathered before the church door, and became more than ever polite and chivalrous and protective.

“I must see you safely in,” he said, and took up his stand beside her on the mat.

Her eyes rested on him for a second in reproach, then dropped behind the veil of their lids.  In another moment he would have to go.  He had already surrendered her prayer-book, tucking it gently under her arm.

“You’ll be all right when you get in, won’t you?” he said encouragingly.

“Please go,” she whispered.

“Do I jar, dear?” he asked sweetly.

“You do, very much.”

“I’m so sorry.  I won’t do it again.”

But his whispered vows and promises belied him, battling with her consecrated mood.  She felt that his innermost spirit remained in its profanity, unillumined by her rebuke.