he had seen her this morning at the gallery--as
if by accident; but he would frankly admit a jealousy, even a suspicion
of Nigel.

He would ask Bertha in so many words not to see Nigel again.

If she would agree to this, and if she were as affectionate as formerly,
what did the rest matter? The letters must have been slanders; who
_could_ have written them? But, after all, what did it matter? If Bertha
consented to do as he asked, they were untrue, and that was everything.
He and Bertha would drop Hillier, and he would put the whole horrible
business behind him; he would wipe it out, and forget it. The mere
thought of such joy made him tremble ... it seemed too glorious to be
real, and as they approached the house again he began to believe in it.

Clifford had thoroughly enjoyed himself. He felt quite grown-up as he
parted with Percy at Sloane Street, and drove home, singing to himself
the refrain of Pickering's favourite song: "How much wood would a
woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck would chuck wood?"

* * * * *

"Percy, what is the matter?" Bertha asked anxiously, as she looked at
him.

He had gone through a great deal that morning and looked rather worn
out. ... He spoke in a lower voice than usual.

"Look here, Bertha," he said, "I have something to tell you."

She waited, then, at a pause, said, rather pathetically:

"Oh, Percy, do tell me what it is? I've felt so worried about you
lately. You seem to be changed. ... I have felt very pained and hurt.
Tell me what it is."

Percy looked at her. She was looking sweet, anxious and sincere. She
leant forward, holding out her little hand. ... If this was not genuine,
then nothing on earth ever could be!

"Tell me, Percy," she repeated, looking up at him, as he stood by the
fire, with that little movement of her fair head that he used to say was
like a canary.

Percy looked down at her; all his imposingness, all his air of
importance, and his occasional tinge of pompousness, had entirely
vanished. He was simple, angry and unhappy.

"I found I hadn't got to go to chambers early this morning after all, so
I walked down Bond Street. I went into the Grosvenor Gallery. I saw you
there. ... It seemed very strange you hadn't told me. Why didn't you?
Why didn't you? Bertha, don't tell me anything that isn't true!"

Her eyes sparkled. She stood up beaming radiant joy. She went to him
impulsively; everything was all right; he was jealou