Upon this thought he lay down to rest.  For half an hour Basil Morton’s letter had occupied his mind:  he had tried to think out the problem it set forth, not to leave his friend quite unanswered; but weariness prevailed, and with it the old mood of self-congratulation.

Next morning the weather was fine; that is to say, one could read without artificial light, and no rain fell, and far above the house-tops appeared a bluish glimmer, shot now and then with pale yellowness.  Harvey decided to carry out his intention of calling upon Mrs. Abbott.  She lived at Kilburn, and thither he drove shortly before twelve o’clock.  He was admitted to a very cosy room, where, amid books and pictures, and by a large fire, the lady of the house sat reading.  Whatever the cause, it seemed to him that his welcome fell short of cordiality, and he hastened to excuse himself for intruding at so early an hour.

’I received a letter last night which I thought you had better know of without delay.’

‘From that man —­ Mr. Wager?’ said Mrs. Abbott quickly and hopefully, her face brightening.

’Yes.  But there’s nothing satisfactory in it.  He writes from Liverpool, and merely says that the children are at his lodgings, and he can do no more for them.’

Mrs. Abbott set her lips in an expression almost of sullenness.  Rolfe had never seen her look thus, but it confirmed a suspicion which he had harboured concerning her.  Why, he hardly knew —­ for she always presented a face of amiability, and talked in gentle, womanly tones —­ doubt as to Abbott’s domestic felicity haunted his mind.  Perhaps he now saw her, for the first time, as she commonly appeared to her husband —­ slightly peevish, unwilling to be disturbed, impatient when things did not run smoothly.

‘You saw my husband yesterday?’ was her next remark, not very graciously uttered.

’We met in the street last night —­ before I got Wager’s letter.  He was suffering horribly from neuralgia.’

Harvey could not forbear to add this detail, but he softened his voice and smiled.

‘I don’t wonder at it,’ returned the lady; ’he takes no care of himself.’

Harvey glanced about the room.  Its furnishing might be called luxurious, and the same standard of comfort prevailed through the house.  Considering that Edgar Abbott, as Rolfe knew, married on small means, and that he had toiled unremittingly to support a home in which he could seldom enjoy an hour’s leisure, there seemed no difficulty in explaining this neglect of his own health.  It struck the visitor that Mrs. Abbott might have taken such considerations into account, and have spoken of the good fellow more sympathetically.  In truth, Harvey did not quite like Mrs. Abbott.  Her age was about seven and twenty.  She came of poor folk, and had been a high-school teacher; very clever and successful, it was said, and Harvey could believe it.  Her features were regular, and did not lack sweetness; yet, unless