to him. Think
of what _she_ was, and _he_ was, as he stood there and said, "Anybody
else, but his wife;" and then rather shaped the "No" that followed
with his lips than said it; but shook an emphasis into the word with
his head.

"When are you going to get your hair cut, Mr. Fenwick?" said she;
and he did think she changed the subject abruptly, without apparent
cause. "It's just like a lion's mane when you shake it like that."

"To-morrow, if you think it too disreputable."

"I like it. Sally wants to cut it...."

The last few words showed the completeness of Fenwick's _tame
cattitude_ in the family. It had developed in an amazingly short time.
Was it due to the old attachment of this man and woman--an attachment,
mind you, that was sound and strong till it died a violent death? We
do not find this so very incredible; perhaps, because that memory of
their old parting in the garden went nearer to an actual revival than
any other stirring in his mind. But, of course, there may have been
others equally strong, only we chance to hear of this one.

That was not our purpose, however, in recording such seeming trivial
chat. It was not trivial on Mrs. Nightingale's part. She had made up
her mind to flinch from nothing, always to grasp her nettle. Here was
a nettle, and she seized it firmly. If she identified as clearly as
she did that shaken lion-mane of Fenwick's with that of Gerry, the
young man of twenty years ago, and seeing its identity was silent,
that would be flinching. She would and did say the self-same thing she
could recall saying to Gerry. And she asked Fenwick when he was going
to get his hair cut with a smile, that was like that of the Indian
brave under torture. A knife was through her heart. But it was well
done, so she thought to herself. If she could be as intrepid as that,
she could go on and live. She tried experiments of this sort when the
watchful merry eyes of her daughter were not upon her, and even felt
glad, this time, that the Major was having a doze underneath a "Daily
Telegraph." Fenwick took it all as a matter of course, mere chaff....

Did he? If so, why, after a few words more of chat, did he press his
hands on his eyes and shake a puzzled head; then, after an abrupt turn
up and down the room, come back to where he stood at first and draw a
long breath?

"Was that a recurrence, Mr. Fenwick?" she asked. They had come to
speak of these mental discomforts as _recurrences_. They would affli