For the next few months I saw much of Le Geyt; and the more I saw of him, the more I saw that my witch’s prognosis was essentially correct.  They never quarrelled; but Mrs. Le Geyt, in her unobtrusive way, held a quiet hand over her husband which became increasingly apparent.  In the midst of her fancy-work (those busy fingers were never idle) she kept her eyes well fixed on him.  Now and again I saw him glance at his motherless girls with what looked like a tender, protecting regret; especially when “Clara” had been most openly drilling them; but he dared not interfere.  She was crushing their spirit, as she was crushing their father’s—­and all, bear in mind, for the best of motives!  She had their interest at heart; she wanted to do what was right for them.  Her manner to him and to them was always honey-sweet—­in all externals; yet one could somehow feel it was the velvet glove that masked the iron hand; not cruel, not harsh even, but severely, irresistibly, unflinchingly crushing.  “Ettie, my dear, get your brown hat at once.  What’s that?  Going to rain?  I did not ask you, my child, for your opinion on the weather.  My own suffices.  A headache?  Oh, nonsense!  Headaches are caused by want of exercise.  Nothing so good for a touch of headache as a nice brisk walk in Kensington Gardens.  Maisie, don’t hold your sister’s hand like that; it is imitation sympathy!  You are aiding and abetting her in setting my wishes at naught.  Now, no long faces!  What I require is cheerful obedience.”

A bland, autocratic martinet:  smiling, inexorable!  Poor, pale Ettie grew thinner and wanner under her law daily, while Maisie’s temper, naturally docile, was being spoiled before one’s eyes by persistent, needless thwarting.

As spring came on, however, I began to hope that things were really mending.  Le Geyt looked brighter; some of his own careless, happy-go-lucky self came back again at intervals.  He told me once, with a wistful sigh, that he thought of sending the children to school in the country—­it would be better for them, he said, and would take a little work off dear Clara’s shoulders; for never even to me was he disloyal to Clara.  I encouraged him in the idea.  He went on to say that the great difficulty in the way was . . .  Clara.  She was so conscientious; she thought it her duty to look after the children herself, and couldn’t bear to delegate any part of that duty to others.  Besides, she had such an excellent opinion of the Kensington High School!

When I told Hilda Wade of this, she set her teeth together and answered at once:  “That settles it!  The end is very near.  He will insist upon their going, to save them from that woman’s ruthless kindness; and she will refuse to give up any part of what she calls her duty.  He will reason with her; he will plead for his children; she will be adamant.  Not angry—­it is never the way of that temperament to get angry—­just calmly, sedately, and insupportably provoking.  When she goes too far, he will flare up at last; some taunt will rouse him; the explosion will come; and . . . the children will go to their Aunt Lina, whom they dote upon.  When all is said and done, it is the poor man I pity!”