ted. But she
did really look tired; Robin's cough was audible in the quiet house; the
telegram had gone, and of course there was nothing more to be done. Dion
did not even express his disappointment; but he begged Rosamund to go
very early to bed, and offered to sleep in a separate room if his return
late was likely to disturb her. She agreed that, perhaps, that would be
best. So, at about eleven-thirty that night, Dion made his way to their
spare room, walking tentatively lest a board should creak and awaken
Rosamund.

Everybody had missed her and had made inquiries about her, except Mrs.
Clarke and Daventry. The latter had not mentioned her in Dion's hearing.
But he was very busy with his guests. Mrs. Clarke had apparently not
known that Rosamund had been expected at the dinner, for when Dion, who
had sat next her, had said something about the unfortunate reason for
Rosamund's absence, Mrs. Clarke had seemed sincerely surprised.

"But I thought your wife had quite given up going out since her child
was born?" she had said.

"Oh no. She goes out sometimes."

"I had no idea she did. But now I shall begin to be disappointed and to
feel I've missed something. You shouldn't have told me."

It was quite gravely and naturally said. As he went into the spare room,
Dion remembered the exact tone of Mrs. Clarke's husky voice in speaking
it, the exact expression in her eyes. They were strange eyes, he
thought, unlike any other eyes he had seen. In them there was often a
look that seemed both intent and remote. Their gaze was very direct but
it was not piercing. There was melancholy in the eyes but there was no
demand for sympathy. When Dion thought of the expression in Rosamund's
eyes he realized how far from happiness, and even from serenity, Mrs.
Clarke must be, and he could not help pitying her. Yet she never posed
as _une femme incomprise_, or indeed as anything. She was absolutely
simple and natural. He had enjoyed talking to her. Despite her gravity
she was, he thought, excellent company, a really interesting woman
and strongly individual. She seemed totally devoid of the little
tiresomenesses belonging to many woman--tiresomenesses which spring out
of vanity and affectation, the desire of possession, the uneasy wish to
"cut out" publicly other women. Mrs. Clarke would surely never
"manage" a man. If she held a man it would be with the listless and yet
imperative grip of Stamboul. The man might go if he would, but--wo