Crossing the room slowly, he lifted and looked at the different papers on the desk.  They had a substantial feeling, an importance, an air of value.  They were like the solemn keys to so many vexed problems.  Beside the papers were a heap of letters neatly arranged and as yet unopened.  He turned them over one by one.  They were all thick, and interesting to look at.  He smiled as he recalled his own scanty mail:  envelopes long and bulky or narrow and thin—­unwelcome manuscripts or very welcome checks.  Having sorted the letters, he hesitated.  It was his task to open them, but he had never in his life opened an envelope addressed to another man.

He stood uncertain, weighing them in his hand.

Then all at once a look of attention and surprise crossed his face, and he raised his head.  Some one had unmistakably paused outside the door which Greening had left ajar.

There was a moment of apparent doubt, then a stir of skirts, a quick, uncertain knock, and the intruder entered.

For a couple of seconds she stood in the doorway; then, as Loder made no effort to speak, she moved into the room.  She had apparently but just returned from some entertainment, for, though she had drawn off her long gloves, she was still wearing an evening cloak of lace and fur.

That she was Chilcote’s wife Loder instinctively realized the moment she entered the room.  But a disconcerting confusion of ideas was all that followed the knowledge.  He stood by the desk, silent and awkward, trying to fit his expectations to his knowledge.  Then, faced by the hopelessness of the task, he turned abruptly and looked at her again.

She had taken off her cloak and was standing by the fire.  The compulsion of moving through life alone had set its seal upon her in a certain self-possession, a certain confidence of pose; yet her figure, as Loder then saw it, backgrounded by the dark books and gowned in pale blue, had a suggestion of youthfulness that seemed a contradiction.  The remembrance of Chilcote’s epithets “cold” and “unsympathetic” came back to him with something like astonishment.  He felt no uncertainty, no dread of discovery and humiliation in her presence as he had felt in the maid’s; yet there was something in her face that made him infinitely more uncomfortable.  A look he could find no name for—­a friendliness that studiously covered another feeling, whether question, distrust, or actual dislike he could not say.  With a strange sensation of awkwardness he sorted Chilcote’s letters, waiting for her to speak.

As if divining his thought, she turned towards him.  “I’m afraid I rather intrude,” she said.  “If you are busy—­”

His sense of courtesy was touched; he had begun life with a high opinion of women, and the words shook up an echo of the old sentiment.

“Don’t think that,” he said, hastily.  “I was only looking through—­my letters.  You mustn’t rate yourself below letters.”  He was conscious that his tone was hurried, that his words were a little jagged; but Eve did not appear to notice.  Unlike Greening, she took the new manner without surprise.  She had known Chilcote for six years.