“Well, it really is you!” she exclaimed, laughing and looking down.

“And it is really you!”

They shook hands, again examining each other.

“I thought you didn’t mean to know me.”

“I hadn’t once looked at you.  But you have changed a good deal.”

“Not more than you have, I’m sure.”

“And what are you doing?  You look much more cheerful than you used to.”

“I can’t say the same of you.”

“Have you been in London all the time?”

“Oh no.  Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and had a place there for nearly six months.  But I got tired of it.  In a few days I’m going to Brighton; I’ve got a place in a restaurant.  Quite time, too; I’ve had nothing for seven weeks.”

“I’ve often thought about you,” said Elgar, after a pause.

“But you never came to see how I was getting on.”

“Oh, I supposed you were married long since.”

She laughed, and shook her head.

“You are, though, I suppose?” she asked.

“Not I!”

They talked with increasing friendliness until the rain stopped, then walked away together in the direction of the City.

About dinner-time, Cecily received a telegram.  It was from her husband, and informed her that he had left town with a friend for a day or two.

This was the first instance of such a proceeding on Reuben’s part.  For a moment, it astonished her.  Which of his friends could it be?  But when the surprise had passed, she reflected more on his reasons for absenting himself, and believed that she understood them.  He wished to punish her; he thought she would be anxious about him, and so come to adopt a different demeanour when he returned.  Ever so slight a suspicion of another kind occurred to her once or twice, but she had no difficulty in dismissing it.  No; this was merely one of his tactics in the conflict that had begun between them

And his absence was a relief.  She too wanted to think for a while, undisturbed.  When she had seen the child bed and asleep, she moved about the house with a strange sense of freedom, seeming to breathe more naturally than for several days.  She went to the piano, and played some favourite pieces, among them one which she had learnt long ago in Paris.  It gave her a curiously keen pleasure, like a revival of her girlhood; she lingered over it, and nursed the impression.  Then she read a little—­not continuously, but dipping into familiar books.  It was holiday with her.  And when she lay down to rest, the sense of being alone was still grateful.  Sleep came very soon, and she did not stir till morning.

On the third day Elgar returned, at noon.  She heard the cab that brought him.  He lingered in the hall, opened the library door; then came to the drawing-room, humming an air.  His look was as different as could be from that she had last seen on his face; he came towards her with his pleasantest smile, and first kissed her hand, then embraced her in the old way.