erior type opened his door to him.

He stepped past her, staring somewhat, and the hall porter followed
into the hall with the luggage. The sitting-room door opened and Marie
came out.

As she came towards her husband she motioned the hall porter to put
the bags in the dressing-room. There was about her an assurance and
authority, very quiet, but undeniable.

"Here you are, Osborn," she said.

"Hallo, dear!" he answered, rather stammeringly. "How are you? How are
the--"

The maid took from him the overcoat which he was shedding, and his
wife retreated into the sitting-room, he following.

When the door was shut, she turned, lifted her face, and murmured:
"How are you, Osborn?"

He kissed her and, loth to relinquish her, kept his arm about her
waist; she was unresponsive, but he did not notice that; they went
together to the chesterfield drawn up before the fire and sat down.
She took a corner, turning herself to face him a little, so that he
had to withdraw his arm from her, and she pushed a billowing cushion
which he did not remember into a comfortable position for her back.

She spoke very kindly and sympathetically, but it was with the
kindness and sympathy which someone who was a stranger might show.
"How well you look! I'm longing to hear all about your doings; your
letters did not say very much. I should have met you at Victoria, only
there's always a crush, and it's easy to miss people, so I thought I'd
stay here."

"I didn't suppose you could leave the children to meet me."

"Oh, I can leave them quite well with Ann."

One of those silences which fall between people who have been
estranged fell between them, during which he looked from her to the
room, and all about him, and back to her, while she regarded him with
that disinterested kindness.

"How nice everything looks!" he said, breaking the silence in a voice
which sounded crude to himself. "What a lot of flowers you have, and
all these cushions! I don't remember things, as a woman would do, but
surely there's something new."

"Only the cushions. I stuffed a lot with one of mother's feather beds.
She left me everything, you know."

"Yes. You didn't say much about it."

"No. The flowers _are_ nice, aren't they? I love flowers."

"So you do," he exclaimed suddenly. "I wish I'd brought you some;
there are such lovely ones at Victoria."

His wife smiled.

"But I've brought you something I hope you'll like as well."

"Have you, you dear