But—­He was astonished to discover that he liked this slim, quiet, unobtrusive little wife of his better than he liked anyone else in the world, that he eagerly turned away from the clever and amusing companionship he might have at his clubs to come down to the country and be with her and the baby—­not the baby alone, but her also.  Why?  He could not find a satisfactory reason.  He saw that she created at that Hempstead place an atmosphere of rest, of tranquility.  But this merely thrust the mystery one step back. How did she create this atmosphere—­and for a man of his varied and discriminating tastes?  To that question he could work out no answer.  She had for him now a charm as different from the infatuation of former days as calm sea is from tempest-racked sea—­utterly different, yet fully as potent.  As he observed her and wondered at these discoveries of his, the ghost of a delight he had thought forever dead stirred in his heart, in his fancy.  Yes, it was a pleasure, a thrilling pleasure to watch her.  There was music in those quiet, graceful movements of hers, in that quiet, sweet voice.  Not the wild, blood-heating music of the former days, but a kind far more melodious—­tender, restful to nerves sorely tried by the tensions of ambition.  He made some sort of an attempt to define his feeling for her, but could not.  It seemed to fit into none of the usual classifications.

Then, he wondered—­“What is she thinking of me?”

To find out he resorted to various elaborate round about methods that did credit to the ingenuity of his mind.  But he made at every cunning cast a barren water-haul.  Either she was not thinking of him at all or what she thought swam too deep for any casts he knew how to make in those hidden and unfamiliar waters.  Or, perhaps she did not herself know what she thought, being too busy with the baby and the household to have time for such abstract and not pressing, perhaps not important, matters.  He moved slowly in his inquiries into her state of mind because there was all the time in the world and no occasion for haste.  He moved cautiously because he wished to do nothing that might disturb the present serenity of their home life.  Did she dislike him?  Was she indifferent?  Had she developed a habit of having him about that was in a way equivalent to liking?

These languid but delightful investigations—­not unlike the pastimes one spins out when one has a long, long lovely summer day with hours on hours for luxurious happy idling—­these investigations were abruptly suspended by a suddenly compelled trip to Europe.  He arranged for Dorothy to send him a cable every day—­“about yourself and the baby”—­and he sent an occasional cabled bulletin about himself in reply.  But neither wrote to the other; their relationship was not of the letter-exchanging kind—­and had no need of pretense at what it was not.

In the third month of his absence, his sister Ursula came over for dresses, millinery and truly aristocratic society.  She had little time for him, or he for her, but they happened to lunch alone about a week after his arrival.