on a little table near-by. His great
figure seemed hunched and crouched together. Sophy hated these crouching
attitudes of his. They made her feel that he was preparing to spring on
something--to worry it. And she noticed how dull his thick, fair hair
looked in the lamplight--"staring" like the coat of a horse out of
condition. She knew that he had not been well for the last two years,
but his illness puzzled her--with its violent interruptions of alternate
rage and high spirits, its long stretches of indifferent apathy.

She did not go up to him, but stood in the middle of the room as she had
stood in the middle of the stairway, watching him. Was he going to be
"nice," and let her enjoy her rare outing? Or was he going to be?...
There were several things that Cecil Chesney could be which made his
wife shiver again and draw her underlip between her teeth.

He was so absorbed in his book that he did not know she stood there
watching him, studying him. His face had a curious expression. It seemed
to her that it looked slightly swollen. His lips hung apart. Every now
and then he moistened them slowly with his tongue. It was so like a cat
licking its chops that Sophy shivered again. She was not exactly afraid
of him but she felt dread.

Then she said in her warm, clear contralto:

"I'm ready, Cecil."

He did not start, but his eyelids drew together and his lips closed. He
laid one hand flat upon the open pages of the book and sat gazing at her
between his drawn-up lids. Then his face loosened; he hunched his
shoulders still more, giving a short, harsh laugh.

"By God!" he said. "You _are_ a beauty!"

Sophy went white. She stood still, moving one slight foot nervously on
the polished floor. Chesney sat looking at her. He smiled and his upper
lip curled in the middle and at the corners.

"Come here," he said.

She dropped her chin slightly and looked steadily back at him from under
her straight brows. Her dilated pupils made her eyes seem black.

"What for?" she said, in a low voice.

"I'll show you when you come."

"We'll be late, Cecil. It takes over half an hour from here to the
Arundels'."

The smile left his lips.

"Come here to me," he said slowly. His voice had no expression in it; he
spoke as an automaton might have spoken, but Sophy took a few reluctant
steps in his direction. Then she stopped again and said:

"I do so hate to be late! Won't you start now?"

His eyes opened wide, and he threw a lo