s midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time
deep in thought.

It was probably true, what Bertrand had said. Tenderly as he loved his
young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence. There was no
friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so
she feared him. His love was to her a consuming flame from which she
shrank. Bitterly he admitted the fact, since there was no ignoring it.
She was frightened at the very existence of his passion, restrain it how
he would. She was his and yet not his. She eluded him, even when he held
her in his arms.

His thoughts travelled backwards, recalling incident after incident, all
pointing to the same thing. And yet he knew that he had been patient with
her. He had held himself in check perpetually. And here again Bertrand's
words recurred to him. If he had asked more, might he not have obtained
more? Was it possible that he had failed to win her because he had not
let her feel the compulsion of his love? Was it perchance his very
restraint that frightened her? Had he indeed asked too little?

Again his thoughts went back and dwelt upon their wedding-night. He had
kindled some answering flame within her then. She had not attempted to
withhold herself. The memory of her shy surrender swept over him, setting
the blood leaping in his veins anew. She had been his that night, and his
throughout the brief fortnight that followed. They had been very intent
upon the renovations, and no cloud had even shadowed their horizon. How
was it she had slipped away from him since? Was it the advent of that
tempestuous youngster that had caused the change? Undoubtedly Chris was
less a Wyndham when alone with him. Or was there some other cause,
arising possibly from some hidden fluctuation of mood, some restlessness
of the spirit, of which he had had no warning? Her aunt's declaration
that they were all lacking in stability recurred to him. Was it so with
her? Was she fickle, was she changeable, his little Chris?

Her own words came back to him, uttered with tears upon her wedding-day:
"Don't you often think me silly and fickle? You'll find it more and more,
the more you see of me. You'll be horribly disappointed in me some day."

He rose abruptly. No, that day had not dawned yet. If she had slipped
away from him, he, and he alone, was to blame. He had not won the
friendship which alone brings trust, and he knew now that he could not
hold her w