as, if anything,
worse. Her impatience turned into suspicion. Probably Winn was poisoning
his friend's mind against her. Perhaps he was drinking too much, Sir
Peter did, and people often took after their fathers. That would have to
be another point for Lionel and her to tackle. At last they came in, and
Lionel said without any attempt at an apology:

"We should love some music, Mrs. Winn."

Winn said nothing. He stuck his hands into his pockets, and stood in
front of the fireplace in a horribly British manner while she turned
over her songs. Estelle sang rather prettily. She preferred songs of a
type that dealt with bitter regret over unexplained partings. She sang
them with a great deal of expression and a slight difficulty in letting
go of the top notes. After she had sung two or three, Lionel said:

"Now, Winn, you sing."

Estelle started. She had never before heard of this accomplishment of
her husband's. It occurred to her now that Lionel would think it very
strange she hadn't, but he need never know unless Winn gave her away.
She need not have been afraid. Winn said quietly, as if he said it to
her every evening, "D'you mind playing for me, Estelle?" Then he
dragged out from under her music a big black book in which he had
painstakingly copied and collected his selection of songs.

He had a high, clear baritone, very true and strangely impressive; it
filled the little room. When he had finished, Lionel forgot to ask
Estelle to sing again. Winn excused himself; he said he had a letter or
two to write and left them.

"It's jolly, your both singing," Lionel said, looking at her with the
same admiring friendliness he had shown her before. She guessed then
that Winn had said nothing against her. After all, at the bottom of her
heart she had known he wouldn't. You can't live with a man for five
months and not know where you are safe.

Estelle smiled prettily.

"Yes," she said gently, "music is a great bond," and then she began to
talk to Lionel about himself.

She had a theory that all men liked to talk exclusively about
themselves, and it is certain that most men enjoyed their conversation
with her; but in this particular instance she made a mistake. Lionel
did not like talking about himself, and above all he disliked
sympathetic admiration. He was not a conceited man, and it had not
occurred to him that he was a suitable subject for admiration. Nor did
he see why he should receive sympathy. He had had an ad