And then, gradually, habit formed a protecting surface for his sensibilities.  If he paid for each day’s comfort with the small change of his illusions, he grew daily to value the comfort more and set less store upon the coin.  He had drifted into a dulling propinquity with Haskett and Varick and he took refuge in the cheap revenge of satirizing the situation.  He even began to reckon up the advantages which accrued from it, to ask himself if it were not better to own a third of a wife who knew how to make a man happy than a whole one who had lacked opportunity to acquire the art.  For it was an art, and made up, like all others, of concessions, eliminations and embellishments; of lights judiciously thrown and shadows skillfully softened.  His wife knew exactly how to manage the lights, and he knew exactly to what training she owed her skill.  He even tried to trace the source of his obligations, to discriminate between the influences which had combined to produce his domestic happiness:  he perceived that Haskett’s commonness had made Alice worship good breeding, while Varick’s liberal construction of the marriage bond had taught her to value the conjugal virtues; so that he was directly indebted to his predecessors for the devotion which made his life easy if not inspiring.

From this phase he passed into that of complete acceptance.  He ceased to satirize himself because time dulled the irony of the situation and the joke lost its humor with its sting.  Even the sight of Haskett’s hat on the hall table had ceased to touch the springs of epigram.  The hat was often seen there now, for it had been decided that it was better for Lily’s father to visit her than for the little girl to go to his boarding-house.  Waythorn, having acquiesced in this arrangement, had been surprised to find how little difference it made.  Haskett was never obtrusive, and the few visitors who met him on the stairs were unaware of his identity.  Waythorn did not know how often he saw Alice, but with himself Haskett was seldom in contact.

One afternoon, however, he learned on entering that Lily’s father was waiting to see him.  In the library he found Haskett occupying a chair in his usual provisional way.  Waythorn always felt grateful to him for not leaning back.

“I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn,” he said rising.  “I wanted to see Mrs. Waythorn about Lily, and your man asked me to wait here till she came in.”

“Of course,” said Waythorn, remembering that a sudden leak had that morning given over the drawing-room to the plumbers.

He opened his cigar-case and held it out to his visitor, and Haskett’s acceptance seemed to mark a fresh stage in their intercourse.  The spring evening was chilly, and Waythorn invited his guest to draw up his chair to the fire.  He meant to find an excuse to leave Haskett in a moment; but he was tired and cold, and after all the little man no longer jarred on him.