speak. He was singularly
taciturn. Chesney used to boast that he had trained Gaynor to be silent
in season and out of season, as some people train a pet dog to "speak."

Three-quarters of an hour later, as Sophy was sitting before her
dressing-table while Tilda brushed out her long hair for the night,
there came a knock at the door. Tilda went to answer it, and returned
with an envelope in her hand. It was a note from Chesney, written by
himself. It said that he felt much better--implored Sophy to come to his
room before going to bed. She gazed down at the handwriting, feeling
mystified. It was strong, flowing, and abounded in eager flourishes
where the pen had glided from word to word without lifting from the
paper. Yet she had seen Cecil only a short while ago in a state of
collapse that really alarmed her.

"Who gave you this?" she said to Tilda.

"Mr. Gaynor, m'm."

"Very well. Tell Gaynor to say to Mr. Chesney that I will come in a few
moments."

VIII

When she entered her husband's bedroom, he was already in bed, lying
propped up against a heap of pillows. A shaded lamp burnt on a table
close by--the same lamp that Sophy had extinguished at five o'clock the
other morning. Gaynor was folding some garments and laying them away in
a cupboard. As soon as Sophy came in, he slipped out in the mousey way
that she so disliked. She had never been able to overcome her antipathy
towards Gaynor. Then she looked earnestly at Chesney and was startled by
the change in him. His face was slightly flushed, but looked gay and
good-humoured. He had on pyjamas of a light, grey-blue that threw out
the gold in his fair hair. There were books all about him--on the bed,
and on the table. Writing materials were laid close at hand on a leather
blotting-pad. He smiled, with an almost childlike, ingenuous expression,
and held out both hands to her.

Sophy felt bewildered. She did not know how to return this look. Her
heart felt sore and outraged, yet something in this eager, humble look
of his melted her against her will. She went up to the bed and let him
take her hands.

"You'll forgive a chap, won't you, eh, Daphne?" (Oh, if only he wouldn't
call her "Daphne" on these occasions!) "A rum, seedy duffer, who's
devilish crusty at times, but who worships your shoe-soles!" (So he
called it being "crusty"--those ways and words that seared her most
intimate womanhood like a hot iron!)

"Are you really better? What was it?" she