When Anna Stormer came into the study she found her husband standing at the window with his head a little on one side—­a tall, long-legged figure in clothes of a pleasant tweed, and wearing a low turn-over collar (not common in those days) and a blue silk tie, which she had knitted, strung through a ring.  He was humming and gently tapping the window-pane with his well-kept finger-nails.  Though celebrated for the amount of work he got through, she never caught him doing any in this house of theirs, chosen because it was more than half a mile away from the College which held the ‘dear young clowns,’ as he called them, of whom he was tutor.

He did not turn—­it was not, of course, his habit to notice what was not absolutely necessary—­but she felt that he was aware of her.  She came to the window seat and sat down.  He looked round at that, and said:  “Ah!”

It was a murmur almost of admiration, not usual from him, since, with the exception of certain portions of the classics, it was hardly his custom to admire.  But she knew that she was looking her best sitting there, her really beautiful figure poised, the sun shining on her brown hair, and brightening her deep-set, ice-green eyes under their black lashes.  It was sometimes a great comfort to her that she remained so good-looking.  It would have been an added vexation indeed to have felt that she ruffled her husband’s fastidiousness.  Even so, her cheekbones were too high for his taste, symbols of that something in her character which did not go with his—­the dash of desperation, of vividness, that lack of a certain English smoothness, which always annoyed him.

“Harold!”—­she would never quite flatten her r’s—­“I want to go to the mountains this year.”

The mountains!  She had not seen them since that season at San Martino di Castrozza twelve years ago, which had ended in her marrying him.

“Nostalgia!”

“I don’t know what that means—­I am homesick.  Can we go?”

“If you like—­why not?  But no leading up the Cimone della Pala for me!”

She knew what he meant by that.  No romance.  How splendidly he had led that day!  She had almost worshipped him.  What blindness!  What distortion!  Was it really the same man standing there with those bright, doubting eyes, with grey already in his hair?  Yes, romance was over!  And she sat silent, looking out into the street—­that little old street into which she looked day and night.  A figure passed out there, came to the door, and rang.

She said softly:  “Here is Mark Lennan!”

She felt her husband’s eyes rest on her just for a moment, knew that he had turned, heard him murmur:  “Ah, the angel clown!” And, quite still, she waited for the door to open.  There was the boy, with his blessed dark head, and his shy, gentle gravity, and his essay in his hand.

“Well, Lennan, and how’s old Noll?  Hypocrite of genius, eh?  Draw up; let’s get him over!”