Often he sat for hours in his study, brooding, inaccessible.  She had the tennis-court rolled and marked, but the contests here were pitifully-unequal; for the row of silver cups on his mantel, engraved with many dates, bore witness to his athletic prowess.  She wrote for a book on solitaire, but after a while the sight of cards became distasteful.  With a secret diligence she read the reviews, and sent for novels and memoirs which she scanned eagerly before they were begun with him.  Once, when she went into his study on an errand, she stood for a minute gazing painfully at the cleared space on his desk where once had lain the papers and letters relative to the life of General Angus Chiltern.

There were intervals in which her hope flared, in which she tasted, fearfully and with bated breath, something that she had not thought to know again.  It was characteristic of him that his penitence was never spoken:  nor did he exhibit penitence.  He seemed rather at such times merely to become normally himself, as one who changes personality, apparently oblivious to the moods and deeds of yesterday.  And these occasions added perplexity to her troubles.  She could not reproach him —­which perhaps in any event she would have been too wise to do; but she could not, try as she would, bring herself to the point of a discussion of their situation.  The risk, she felt, was too great; now, at least.  There were instances that made her hope that the hour might come.

One fragrant morning Honora came down to find him awaiting her, and to perceive lying on her napkin certain distilled drops of the spring sunshine.  In language less poetic, diamonds to be worn in the ears.  The wheel of fashion, it appeared, had made a complete revolution since the early days of his mother’s marriage.  She gave a little exclamation, and her hand went to her heart.

“They are Brazilian stones,” he explained, with a boyish pleasure that awoke memories and held her speechless.  “I believe it’s very difficult, if not impossible, to buy them now.  My father got them after the war and I had them remounted.”  And he pressed them against the pink lobes of her ears.  “You look like the Queen of Sheba.”

“How do you know?” she asked tremulously.  “You never saw her.”

“According to competent judges,” he replied, “she was the most beautiful woman of her time.  Go upstairs and put them on.”

She shook her head.  An inspiration had come to her.

“Wait,” she cried.  And that morning, when Hugh had gone out, she sent for Starling and startled him by commanding that the famous Lowestoft set be used at dinner.  He stared at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched, and still he stood respectfully in the doorway.

“That is all, Starling.”

“I beg pardon, madam.  How—­how many will there be at the table?”

“Just Mr. Chiltern and I,” she replied.  But she did not look at him.