trifle
that he could imagine--Roselle's teaching was useful here,--little
chiffon collars, and a glittering hair-band ornament that he thought
looked very French, and handkerchiefs, and a pair of silk stockings,
and garters with great big fluffy pompoms on them. She had had to be
rather a mouse during her married life, after the trousseau was worn
out and since her children came, anyway. How pleased she would be to
have these pretty things!

The evening he arrived, after dinner, they would sit down by the fire
and he would tell her all his business news--how well he'd done; all
about his hopes and prospects, and he would give her some of his
firm's letters to him to read. He would be sure of her sympathy and
appreciation.

He had made more than a thousand pounds in commissions that year, and
it was waiting for him, in a lump. He drew a long breath at the
thought of it.

A thousand pounds! And there would be more to follow, for poor Woodall
had died, and he was holding down the job.

He crossed to Dover on a still, cold day; it was an excellent crossing
for the time of year. He stood on deck, smoking, watching the white
cliffs approach, looking back over the last year and forward to those
that lay before him. The last year--how mad and jolly it had been for
the greater part! It had been a great piece of folly and a great piece
of fun, travelling about with a lovely woman like Roselle Dates; it
was a situation which half the men he knew would have envied him.
Coming as it did after a humdrum period of domesticity, where a man
could not afford either folly or fun, the danger signals had been
flying all the time.

He could recall fifty occasions on which he could, or would, gladly
have lost his head; but now, retrospecting, he was inclined to give
himself the credit rather than Roselle, that their relations had been
so innocuous. And at the moment, although every second the boat
brought him nearer to her, he felt strangely indifferent as to whether
they met again or not. He supposed that he might, perhaps, go to see
her in this new play, and perhaps take her out to supper.

At four o'clock in the afternoon he was home.

He ran up the grey stone stairs like a boy and attained that dear old
door, the portal of home. Having mislaid his latchkey, he had listened
eagerly, anticipating the sound of Marie's feet flying down the hall.
Feet came with a sort of drilled haste, but no eagerness.

A smart maid-servant of sup