the admirable appointments of his home; but a companion spirit to one who wanted a companion badly.  In this agitation of his soul he could keep still no more than he could last night in the agitation of his senses; and he wandered into the dining-room.  A dainty supper was set out there, sandwiches, and cake, whisky and the cigarettes—­even an early peach.  Mr. Bosengate looked at this peach with sorrow rather than disgust.  The perfection of it was of a piece with all that had gone before this new and sudden feeling.  Its delicious bloom seemed to heighten his perception of the hedge around him, that hedge of the things he so enjoyed, carefully planted and tended these many years.  He passed it by uneaten, and went to the window.  Out there all was darkening, the fountain, the lime tree, the flower-beds, and the fields below, with the Jersey cows who would come to your call; darkening slowly, losing form, blurring into soft blackness, vanishing, but there none the less—­all there—­the hedge of his possessions.  He heard the door of the drawing-room open, the voices of his wife and the governess in the hall, going up to bed.  If only they didn’t look in here!  If only!  The voices ceased.  He was safe now—­had but to follow in a few minutes, to make sure of Kathleen alone.  He turned round and stared down the length of the dark dining-room, over the rosewood table, to where in the mirror above the sideboard at the far end, his figure bathed, a stain, a mere blurred shadow; he made his way down to it along the table edge, and stood before himself as close as he could get.  His throat and the roof of his mouth felt dry with nervousness; he put out his finger and touched his face in the glass.  ‘You’re an ass!’ he thought.  ’Pull yourself together, and get it over.  She will see; of course she will!’ He swallowed, smoothed his moustache, and walked out.  Going up the stairs, his heart beat painfully; but he was in for it now, and marched straight into her room.  Dressed only in a loose blue wrapper, she was brushing her dark hair before the glass.  Mr. Bosengate went up to her and stood there silent, looking down.  The words he had thought of were like a swarm of bees buzzing in his head, yet not one would fly from between his lips.  His wife went on brushing her hair under the light which shone on her polished elbows.  She looked up at him from beneath one lifted eyebrow.

“Well, dear—­tired?”

With a sort of vehemence the single word “No” passed out.  A faint, a quizzical smile flitted over her face; she shrugged her shoulders ever so gently.  That gesture—­he had seen it before!  And in desperate desire to make her understand, he put his hand on her lifted arm.

“Kathleen, stop—­listen to me!” His fingers tightened in his agitation and eagerness to make his great discovery known.  But before he could get out a word he became conscious of that cool round arm, conscious of her eyes half-closed, sliding round at him, of her half-smiling lips, of her neck under the wrapper.  And he stammered: