“Yes, I am hungry,” said she.

Her patient, passive resignation irritated him.  “I’m ravenous,” he said.  “I’ll dress—­and you dress, too.  We’ll go downstairs to supper.”

When he reappeared in the sitting room, in a dinner jacket, she was again seated near the window, hands listless in her lap and eyes gazing dreamily into vacancy.  But she was now dressed in the black chiffon and the big black hat.  He laughed.  “You are prompt and obedient,” said he.  “Nothing like hunger to subdue.”

A faint flush tinged her lovely skin; the look of the child that has been struck appeared in her eyes.

He cast about in his mind for the explanation.  Did she think he meant it was need that had brought her meekly back to him?  That was true enough, but he had not intended to hint it.  In high good humor because he was so delightfully hungry and was about to get food, he cried:  “Do cheer up!  There’s nothing to be sad about—­nothing.”

She lifted her large eyes and gazed at him timidly.  “What are you going to do with me?”

“Take you downstairs and feed you.”

“But I mean—­afterward?”

“Bring—­or send—­you up here to go to bed.”

“Are you going away?”

“Where?”

“Away from me.”

He looked at her with amused eyes.  She was exquisitely lovely; never had he seen her lovelier.  It delighted him to note her charms—­the charms that had enslaved him—­not a single charm missing—­and to feel that he was no longer their slave, was his own master again.

A strange look swept across her uncannily mobile face—­a look of wonder, of awe, of fear, of dread.  “You don’t even like me any more,” she said in her colorless way.

“What have I done to make you think I dislike you?” said he pleasantly.

She gazed down in silence.

“You need have no fear,” said he.  “You are my wife.  You will be well taken care of, and you will not be annoyed.  What more can I say?”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He winced.  She had made him feel like an unpleasant cross between an alms-giver and a bully.  “Now,” said he, with forced but resolute cheerfulness, “we will eat, drink and be merry.”

On the way down in the elevator he watched her out of the corner of his eye.  When they reached the hall leading to the supper room he touched her arm and halted her.  “My dear,” said he in the pleasant voice which yet somehow never failed to secure attention and obedience, “there will be some of my acquaintances in there at supper.  I don’t want them to see you with that whipped dog look.  There’s no occasion for it.”

Her lip trembled.  “I’ll do my best,” said she.

“Let’s see you smile,” laughed he.  “You have often shown me that you know the woman’s trick of wearing what feelings you choose on the outside.  So don’t pretend that you’ve got to look as if you were about to be hung for a crime you didn’t commit.  There!—­that’s better.”