‘The first part of her remark—­yes,’ said Rhoda caustically.  ’But as for the “no harm in trying,” well, let us ask the wife’s opinion in a year’s time.’

* * * * * * * * * *

Midway in the London season on Sunday afternoon, about a score of visitors were assembled in Mrs. Cosgrove’s drawing-rooms—­there were two of them, with a landing between.  As usual, some one sat at the piano, but a hum of talk went on as undercurrent to the music.  Downstairs, in the library, half a dozen people found the quietness they preferred, and among these was Mrs. Widdowson.  She had an album of portraits on her lap; whilst turning them over, she listened to a chat going on between the sprightly Mr. Bevis and a young married woman who laughed ceaselessly at his jokes.  It was only a few minutes since she had come down from the drawing-room.  Presently her eyes encountered a glance from Bevis, and at once he stepped over to a seat beside her.

‘Your sisters are not here to-day?’ she said.

’No.  They have guests of their own.  And when are you coming to see them again?’

‘Before long, I hope.’

Bevis looked away and seemed to reflect.

‘Do come next Saturday—­could you?’

‘I had better not promise.’

’Do try, and’—­he lowered his voice—­’come alone.  Forgive me for saying that.  The girls are rather afraid of Mr. Widdowson, that’s the truth.  They would so like a free gossip with you.  Let me tell them to expect you about half-past three or four.  They will rise up and call me blessed.’

Laughing, Monica at length agreed to come if circumstances were favourable.  Her talk with Bevis continued for a long time, until people had begun to leave.  Some other acquaintance then claimed her, but she was now dull and monosyllabic, as if conversation had exhausted her energies.  At six o’clock she stole away unobserved, and went home.

Widdowson had resigned himself, in appearance at all events, to these absences.  It was several weeks since he had accompanied his wife to call upon any one; a sluggishness was creeping over him, strengthening his disinclination for society.  The futile endeavour to act with decision, to carry Monica away into Somerset, resulted, as futile efforts of that kind are wont to do, in increased feebleness of the will; he was less capable than ever of exerting the authority which he still believed himself to keep for the last resort.  Occasionally some days went by without his leaving the house.  Instead of the one daily newspaper he had been used to take he now received three; after breakfast he sometimes spent a couple of hours over the Times, and the evening papers often occupied him from dinner to bedtime.  Monica noticed, with a painful conflict of emotions, that his hair had begun to lose its uniform colour, and to show streaks that matched with his grizzled beard.  Was she responsible for this?

On the Saturday when she was to visit the Bevises she feared lest he should propose to go with her.  She wished even to avoid the necessity of telling him where she was going.  As she rose from luncheon Widdowson glanced at her.