ually fix upon. Certainly nothing that could
give her an excuse for speaking to Belinda. For she had decided that she
would speak to the girl if it became necessary, rather than to Morris.
She recoiled, in all her being, from speaking to him on such a subject.
Besides, she felt that it would only enrage him further. But Belinda
might listen. She might appreciate it, that Sophy should go direct to
her, instead of to her mother.

And still nothing had happened that made Sophy feel justified in taking
such a course, though _something_ there undoubtedly was--something not
just right, not just clear--a tension, a vibration. It humiliated her to
be thus on the alert. She felt like a spy. Yet she felt also that it was
clearly her duty to be watchful if only for the sake of Belinda.

She knew that Morris was in a very exasperated, cruel mood. He nursed
against her the most passionate grievance. She felt that given the
occasion he might go to excessive lengths in his angry desire to punish
her. She knew how vindictive his present temper was, because although he
had been drinking much less of late, he had not sought a reconciliation
with her. But she did not make any advances to him. She had told him one
night at Nahant that she would never again live with him as his wife,
unless he could show her beyond doubt that he loved her more than drink.
He had stared at her, literally dumb with fury. Then he had flung out of
the room, slamming the door behind him. They had never spoken on the
subject since.

One evening, towards the end of the week, Sophy stayed at home by
herself. She looked forward with relief to these quiet hours. She felt
a craving for solitude and music--to sing out some of the pain that was
oppressing her. She dined early and went to what was called "the little
music-room." This room she had had done over for her especial use. The
walls were tranquil and rather bare, of a soft cream colour. A frieze in
subdued tones after a design by Leonardo ran about it. There was only
one painting, a lovely Luini angel with a viol. The dark, polished floor
reflected jars of blue Hortensias. Two church candles on silver
"prickets" lighted the piano. The windows, flush with the sea-lawn, were
opened wide. Through them floated soft, cloud-tempered moonlight and the
deep breaths of the sea.

The room and the hour fitted her mood to perfection. She sat down at the
piano and began thinking aloud, as it were, in what Chesney had call