nother was Mrs. Widdowson. Mary received him without effusiveness, and
after a few minutes' talk with her he took a place by Mrs. Widdowson,
who, it struck him, looked by no means in such good spirits as during
the early days of her marriage. As soon as she began to converse, his
impression of a change in her was confirmed; the girlishness so
pleasantly noticeable when first he knew her had disappeared, and the
gravity substituted for it was suggestive of disillusion, of trouble.

She asked him if he knew some people named Bevis, who occupied a flat
just above his own.

'Bevis? I have seen the name on the index at the foot of the stairs;
but I don't know them personally.'

'That was how I came to know that _you_ live there,' said Monica. 'My
husband took me to call upon the Bevises, and there we saw your name.
At least, we supposed it was you, and Miss Barfoot tells me we were
right.'

'Oh yes; I live there all alone, a gloomy bachelor. How delightful if
you knocked at my door some day, when you and Mr. Widdowson are again
calling on your friends.'

Monica smiled, and her eyes wandered restlessly.

'You have been away--out of England?' she next said.

'Yes; in Italy.'

'I envy you.'

'You have never been there?'

'No--not yet.'

He talked a little of the agreeables and disagreeables of life in that
country. But Mrs. Widdowson had become irresponsive; he doubted at
length whether she was listening to him, so, as Miss Haven stepped this
way, he took an opportunity of a word aside with his cousin.

'Miss Nunn not at home?'

'No. Won't be till dinner-time.'

'Quite well?'

'Never was better. Would you care to come back and dine with us at
half-past seven?'

'Of course I should.'

With this pleasant prospect he took his leave. The afternoon being
sunny, instead of walking straight to the station, to return home, he
went out on to the Embankment, and sauntered round by Chelsea Bridge
Road. As he entered Sloane Square he saw Mrs. Widdowson, who was coming
towards the railway; she walked rather wearily, with her eyes on the
ground, and did not become aware of him until he addressed her.

'Are we travelling the same way?' he asked. 'Westward?'

'Yes. I am going all the way round to Portland Road.'

They entered the station, Barfoot chatting humorously. And, so intent
was he on the expression of his companion's downcast face, that he
allowed an acquaintance to pass close by him unobserved. It was Rhoda