‘He’s often there, then?’

‘I don’t know.  Perhaps he is.  He’s Miss Barfoot’s cousin, you know.’

‘You haven’t seen him more than once before?’

‘No.  Why do you ask?’

’Oh, it was only that he seemed to speak as if you were old acquaintances.’

‘That’s his way, I suppose.’

Monica had already learnt that the jealousy which Widdowson so often betrayed before their manage still lurked in his mind.  Perceiving why he put these questions, she could not look entirely unconcerned, and the sense of his eye being upon her caused her some annoyance.

‘You talked to him, didn’t you?’ she said, changing her position in the deep chair.

’Oh, the kind of talk that is possible with a perfect stranger.  I suppose he is in some profession?’

‘I really don’t know.  Why, Edmund?  Does he interest you?’

’Only that one likes to know something about the people that are introduced to one’s wife,’ Widdowson answered rather acridly.

Their bedtime was half-past ten.  Precisely at that moment Widdowson closed his book—­glad to be relieved from the pretence of reading—­and walked over the lower part of the house to see that all was right.  He had a passion for routine.  Every night, before going upstairs, he did a number of little things in unvarying sequence—­ changed the calendar for next day, made perfect order on his writing-table, wound lip his watch, and so on.  That Monica could not direct her habits with like exactitude was frequently a distress to him; if she chanced to forget any most trivial detail of daily custom he looked very solemn, and begged her to be more vigilant.

Next morning after breakfast, as Monica stood by the dining-room window and looked rather cheerlessly at a leaden sky, her husband came towards her as if he had something to say.  She turned, and saw that his face no longer wore the austere expression which had made her miserable last night, and even during the meal this morning.

‘Are we friends?’ he said, with the attempt at playfulness which always made him look particularly awkward.

‘Of course we are,’ Monica answered, smiling, but not regarding him.

‘Didn’t he behave gruffly last night to his little girl?’

‘Just a little.’

‘And what can the old bear do to show that he’s sorry?’

‘Never be gruff again.’

’The old bear is sometimes an old goose as well, and torments himself in the silliest way.  Tell him so, if ever he begins to behave badly.  Isn’t it account-book morning?’

‘Yes.  I’ll come to you at eleven.’

’And if we have a nice, quiet, comfortable week, I’ll take you to the Crystal Palace concert next Saturday.’

Monica nodded cheerfully, and went off to look after her housekeeping.

The week was in all respects what Widdowson desired.  Not a soul came to the house; Monica went to see no one.  Save on two days, it rained, sleeted, drizzled, fogged; on those two afternoons they had an hour’s walk.  Saturday brought no improvement of the atmosphere, but Widdowson was in his happiest mood; he cheerfully kept his promise about the concert.  As they sat together at night, his contentment overflowed in tenderness like that of the first days of marriage.