“It’s I—­Monty,” said a voice.

Clutching the bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch of the light hanging above her dressing-table.  He appeared just on the rim of the light’s circumference, emblazoned from the absence of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, but—­yes!—­split at the toecap.  His chest and face were shadowy.  Surely he was thin—­or was it a trick of the light?  He advanced, lighted now from toe-cap to the top of his dark head—­surely a little grizzled!  His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black moustache had lost boldness, become sardonic; there were lines which she did not know about his face.  There was no pin in his tie.  His suit—­ah!—­she knew that—­but how unpressed, unglossy!  She stared again at the toe-cap of his boot.  Something big and relentless had been ’at him,’ had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him.  And she stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at that crack across the toe.

“Well!” he said, “I got the order.  I’m back.”

Winifred’s bosom began to heave.  The nostalgia for her husband which had rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper jealousy than any she had felt yet.  There he was—­a dark, and as if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self!  What force had done this to him—­squeezed him like an orange to its dry rind!  That woman!

“I’m back,” he said again.  “I’ve had a beastly time.  By God!  I came steerage.  I’ve got nothing but what I stand up in, and that bag.”

“And who has the rest?” cried Winifred, suddenly alive.  “How dared you come?  You knew it was just for divorce that you got that order to come back.  Don’t touch me!”

They held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so many years of nights together.  Many times, yes—­many times she had wanted him back.  But now that he had come she was filled with this cold and deadly resentment.  He put his hand up to his moustache; but did not frizz and twist it in the old familiar way, he just pulled it downwards.

“Gad!” he said:  “If you knew the time I’ve had!”

“I’m glad I don’t!”

“Are the kids all right?”

Winifred nodded.  “How did you get in?”

“With my key.”

“Then the maids don’t know.  You can’t stay here, Monty.”

He uttered a little sardonic laugh.

“Where then?”

“Anywhere.”

“Well, look at me!  That—­that damned....”

“If you mention her,” cried Winifred, “I go straight out to Park Lane and I don’t come back.”

Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it moved her.  He shut his eyes.  It was as if he had said:  ’All right!  I’m dead to the world!’

“You can have a room for the night,” she said; “your things are still here.  Only Imogen is at home.”

He leaned back against the bed-rail.  “Well, it’s in your hands,” and his own made a writhing movement.  “I’ve been through it.  You needn’t hit too hard—­it isn’t worth while.  I’ve been frightened; I’ve been frightened, Freddie.”