“You have not changed,” he said.

“No?  What have you come for?”

“To discuss things.”

“I have heard what you want from your cousin.”

“Well?”

“I am willing.  I have always been.”

The sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her figure watchfully poised, defensive, was helping him now.  A thousand memories of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, and....

“Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on which I can act.  The law must be complied with.”

“I have none to give you that you don’t know of.”

“Twelve years!  Do you suppose I can believe that?”

“I don’t suppose you will believe anything I say; but it’s the truth.”

Soames looked at her hard.  He had said that she had not changed; now he perceived that she had.  Not in face, except that it was more beautiful; not in form, except that it was a little fuller—­no!  She had changed spiritually.  There was more of her, as it were, something of activity and daring, where there had been sheer passive resistance.  ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘that’s her independent income!  Confound Uncle Jolyon!’

“I suppose you’re comfortably off now?” he said.

“Thank you, yes.”

“Why didn’t you let me provide for you?  I would have, in spite of everything.”

A faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer.

“You are still my wife,” said Soames.  Why he said that, what he meant by it, he knew neither when he spoke nor after.  It was a truism almost preposterous, but its effect was startling.  She rose from the window-seat, and stood for a moment perfectly still, looking at him.  He could see her bosom heaving.  Then she turned to the window and threw it open.

“Why do that?” he said sharply.  “You’ll catch cold in that dress.  I’m not dangerous.”  And he uttered a little sad laugh.

She echoed it—­faintly, bitterly.

“It was—­habit.”

“Rather odd habit,” said Soames as bitterly.  “Shut the window!”

She shut it and sat down again.  She had developed power, this woman—­this—­wife of his!  He felt it issuing from her as she sat there, in a sort of armour.  And almost unconsciously he rose and moved nearer; he wanted to see the expression on her face.  Her eyes met his unflinching.  Heavens! how clear they were, and what a dark brown against that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair!  And how white her shoulders.

Funny sensation this!  He ought to hate her.

“You had better tell me,” he said; “it’s to your advantage to be free as well as to mine.  That old matter is too old.”

“I have told you.”

“Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing—­nobody?”

“Nobody.  You must go to your own life.”

Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in their drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him.