Percy, who was never very quick, was this evening much longer coming
upstairs than usual. He was looking at the letters in the hall. With his
long, legal-looking, handsome face, his even features, his fine figure
and his expression of mild self-control, and the large, high brow, he
had a certain look of importance. He appeared to have more personality
then he really had. His manner was impressive, even when one knew--as
Bertha certainly did--that he was the mildest, the most amiable and
good-natured of serious barristers.

With one of those impulses that are almost impossible to account for,
Percy took one of the letters up before the others. It was directed in
type. He half opened it, then put it in his pocket. He felt anxious to
read it; for some quite inexplicable reason he felt there was something
about it momentous, and of interest. It was not a circular, or a bill.
It made him feel uncomfortable. After waiting a moment he opened it and
read part of it. Then he replaced it in his pocket, and ran up to his
room, taking the other unopened letters with him.

"Percy!" called Bertha, as he passed the drawing-room.

"I shall be down in a few minutes," he called out.

He went upstairs and shut himself into his room.

She also felt unaccountably uncomfortable and anxious, as if something
had happened, or was going to happen. Why was Percy so long?

When he came down at last she gave him his tea and a cigarette and
noticed, or perhaps imagined, that he looked different from usual. He
was pale. Yes, he was distinctly a little pale. Poor Percy!

* * * * *

Instead of telling him he was not looking very well, and asking him what
was the matter, complaining that he had not taken any notice of her, or
behaving otherwise idiotically, after the usual fashion of affectionate
wives, she remained silent, and waited till he seemed more as usual.

Then he said: "Has anyone been here to-day?"

"No one but Madeline. She's only just gone."

"Oh yes--been out at all?"

"I went out this morning for a little while."

He seemed absent.

"You enjoyed yourself last night, didn't you?" he asked.

"Oh yes, it was rather fun. Yet, somehow, the Russian Ballet never
leaves me in good spirits for the next day. It doesn't really leave a
pleasant impression somehow--an agreeable flavour."

"Doesn't it--why?"

"One wants to see it, one is interested, from curiosity, and then,
afterwards, there's a so