“Anne,” he said, “take Miss Effie and carry her till you can find a donkey.  She can ride back to the lodgings.”  The nurse murmured something in French about the child being as heavy as lead.

“Do as I bid you,” he said sharply, in the same language.  “Effie, my love, give me a kiss and go home.  Thank you for coming to see me.”

The child obeyed and went.  Lady Honoria stood and watched her go, tapping her little foot upon the floor, and with a look upon her cold, handsome face that was not altogether agreeable to see.

It had sometimes happened that, in the course of his married life, Geoffrey returned home with a little of that added fondness which absence is fabled to beget.  On these occasions he was commonly so unfortunate as to find that Lady Honoria belied the saying, that she greeted him with arrears of grievances and was, if possible, more frigid than ever.

Was this to be repeated now that he had come back from what was so near to being the longest absence of all?  It looked like it.  He noted symptoms of the rising storm, symptoms with which he was but too well acquainted, and both for his own sake and for hers—­for above all things Geoffrey dreaded these bitter matrimonial bickerings—­tried to think of something kind to say.  It must be owned that he did not show much tact in the subject he selected, though it was one which might have stirred the sympathies of some women.  It is so difficult to remember that one is dealing with a Lady Honoria.

“If ever we have another child——­” he began gently.

“Excuse me interrupting you,” said the lady, with a suavity which did not however convey any idea of the speaker’s inward peace, “but it is a kindness to prevent you from going on in that line. One darling is ample for me.”

“Well,” said the miserable Geoffrey, with an effort, “even if you don’t care much about the child yourself, it is a little unreasonable to object because she cares for me and was sorry when she thought that I was dead.  Really, Honoria, sometimes I wonder if you have any heart at all.  Why should you be put out because Effie got up early to come and see me?—­an example which I must admit you did not set her.  And as to her shoe——­” he added smiling.

“You may laugh about her shoe, Geoffrey,” she interrupted, “but you forget that even little things like that are no laughing matter now to us.  The child’s shoes keep me awake at night sometimes.  Defoy has not been paid for I don’t know how long.  I have a mind to get her sabots—­and as to heart——­”

“Well,” broke in Geoffrey, reflecting that bad as was the emotional side of the question, it was better than the commercial—­“as to ‘heart?’”

“You are scarcely the person to talk of it, that is all.  I wonder how much of yours you gave me?”

“Really, Honoria,” he answered, not without eagerness, and his mind filled with wonder.  Was it possible that his wife had experienced some kind of “call,” and was about to concern herself with his heart one way or the other?  If so it was strange, for she had never shown the slightest interest in it before.