very
late,' she said as he came up.

'Oh, I'm not going; at least, you are just coming away, aren't you? I
think it is too late. I'll turn back with you.'

'Do,' she said, and looked at his capable, sensitive hand as he laid
it on the side of her little carriage. Miss Anderson had not the
accomplishment of palm-reading, but she took general manual impressions.
She had observed Colonel Innes's hand before, but it had never offered
itself so intimately to her inspection. That, perhaps, was why the
conviction seemed new to her, as she thought 'He is admirable--and it is
all there.'

When they got to the level Mall he kept his hold, which was a perfectly
natural and proper thing for him to do, walking alongside; but she still
looked at it.

'I have heard your good news,' she said, smiling congratulation at him.

'My good news? Oh, about my wife, of course. Yes, she ought to be here
by the end of the month. I thought of writing to tell you when the
telegram came, and then I--didn't. The files drove it out of my head, I
fancy.'

'Heavy day?'

'Yes,' he said, absently. They went along together in an intimacy of
silence, and Madeline was quite aware of the effort with which she said:

'I shall look forward to meeting Mrs. Innes.'

It was plain that his smile was perfunctory, but he put it on with
creditable alacrity.

'She will be delighted. My wife is a clever woman,' he went on, 'very
bright and attractive. She keeps people well amused.'

'She must be a great success in India, then.'

'I think she is liked. She has a tremendous fund of humour and spirits.
A fellow feels terribly dull beside her sometimes.'

Madeline cast a quick glance at him, but he was only occupied to find
other matters with which he might commend his wife.

'She is very fond of animals,' he said, 'and she sings and plays
well--really extremely well.'

'That must be charming,' murmured Madeline, privately iterating, 'He
doesn't mean to damn her--he doesn't mean to damn her.' 'Have you a
photograph of her?'

'Quantities of them,' he said, with simplicity.

'You have never shown me one. But how could you?' she added in haste;
'a photograph is always about the size of a door nowadays. It is simply
impossible to keep one's friends and relations in a pocketbook as one
used to do.'

They might have stopped there, but some demon of persistence drove
Madeline on. She besought help from her imagination; she was not for the
moment honest. It