In that mood he hastened towards Burlington House.  Seeking Monica through the galleries, he saw her at length—­sitting side by side with that man Barfoot.  They were in closest colloquy.  Barfoot bent towards her as if speaking in an undertone, a smile on his face.  Monica looked at once pleased and troubled.

The blood boiled in his veins.  His first impulse was to walk straight up to Monica and bid her follow him.  But the ecstasy of jealous suffering kept him an observer.  He watched the pair until he was descried.

There was no help for it.  Though his brain whirled, and his flesh was stabbed, he had no choice but to take the hand Barfoot offered him.  Smile he could not, nor speak a word.

‘So you have come after all?’ Monica was saying to him.

He nodded.  On her countenance there was obvious embarrassment, but this needed no explanation save the history of the last day or two.  Looking into her eyes, he knew not whether consciousness of wrong might be read there.  How to get at the secrets of this woman’s heart?

Barfoot was talking, pointing at this picture and that, doing his best to smooth what he saw was an awkward situation.  The gloomy husband, more like a tyrant than ever, muttered incoherent phrases.  In a minute or two Everard freed himself and moved out of sight.

Monica turned from her husband and affected interest in the pictures.  They reached the end of the room before Widdowson spoke.

‘How long do you want to stay here?’

‘I will go whenever you like,’ she answered, without looking at him.

‘I have no wish to spoil your pleasure.’

’Really, I have very little pleasure in anything.  Did you come to keep me in sight?’

‘I think we will go home now, and you can come another day.’

Monica assented by closing her catalogue and walking on.

Without a word, they made the journey back to Herne Hill.  Widdowson shut himself in the library, and did not appear till dinner-time.  The meal was a pretence for both of them, and as soon as they could rise from the table they again parted.

About ten o’clock Monica was joined by her husband in the drawing-room.

‘I have almost made up my mind,’ he said, standing near her, ’to take a serious step.  As you have always spoken with pleasure of your old home, Clevedon, suppose we give up this house and go and live there?’

‘It is for you to decide.’

‘I want to know whether you would have any objection.’

‘I shall do as you wish.’

’No, that isn’t enough.  The plan I have in mind is this.  I should take a good large house—­no doubt rents are low in the neighbourhood—­and ask your sisters to come and live with us.  I think it would be a good thing both for them and for you.’

’You can’t be sure that they would agree to it.  You see that Virginia prefers her lodgings to living here.’