Harriet was very quiet when Julian returned.  She went about getting the tea with a sort of indifference; she let a cup fall and break, but made no remark, and left her husband to pick up the pieces.

“Waymark thinks I’m neglecting him,” said Julian, with a laugh, as they sat down together.

“It’s better to neglect him than to neglect me, I should think,” was Harriet’s reply, in a quiet ill-natured tone which she was mistress of.

“But couldn’t we find out some way of doing neither, dear?” went on Julian, playing with his spoon.  “Now suppose I give him a couple of hours one evening every week?  You could spare that, couldn’t you?  Say, from eight to ten on Wednesdays?”

“I suppose you’ll go if you want to.” said Harriet, rising from the tea-table, and taking a seat sulkily by the window.

“Come, come, we won’t say any more about it, if it’s so disagreeable to you,” said Julian, going up to her, and coaxing her back to her place.  “You don’t feel well to-day, do you?  I oughtn’t to have left you this afternoon, but it was difficult to refuse, wasn’t it?”

“He had no business to ask you to go.  He could see I didn’t like it.”

Waymark grew so accustomed to receiving Ida’s note each Monday morning, that when for the first time it failed to conic he was troubled seriously.  It happened, too, that he was able to attach a particular significance to the omission.  When they had last parted, instead of just pressing her hand as usual, he had raised it to his lips.  She frowned and turned quickly away, saying no word.  He had offended her by this infringement of the conditions of their friendship; for once before, when he had uttered a word which implied more than she was willing to allow, Ida had engaged him in the distinct agreement that he should never do or say anything that approached love-making.  As, moreover, it was distinctly understood that he should never visit her save at times previously appointed, he could not see her till she chose to write.  After waiting in the vain expectation of some later post bringing news, he himself wrote, simply asking the cause of her silence.  The reply came speedily.

“I have no spare time in the week.  I thought you would understand this.

I. S.”

It was her custom to write without any formal beginning or ending; yet Waymark felt that this note was briefer than it would have been, had all been as usual between them.  The jealousy which now often tortured him awoke with intolerable vehemence.  He spent a week of misery.

But late on Saturday evening came a letter addressed in the well-known hand.  It said—­

“Sally and I are going up the river to-morrow, if it is fine.  Do you care to meet us on the boat which reaches Chelsea Pier at 10.30?

I. S.”

It seemed he did care; at all events he was half an hour too soon at the pier.  As the boat approached his eye soon singled out two very quietly-dressed girls, who sat with their backs to him, and neither turned nor made any sign of expecting any addition to their party.  With like undemonstrativeness he took a seat at Ida’s side, and returned Sally’s nod and smile.  Ida merely said “Good morning;” there was nothing of displeasure on her face, however, and when he began to speak of indifferent things she replied with the usual easy friendliness.