leaving the train at Lynbrook, had paused in doubt on the
empty platform. His return was unexpected, and no carriage awaited him;
but he caught the signal of the village cab-driver's ready whip.
Amherst, however, felt a sudden desire to postpone the moment of
arrival, and consigning his luggage to the cab he walked away toward the
turnstile through which Justine had passed. In thus taking the longest
way home he was yielding another point to his reluctance. He knew that
at that hour his wife's visitors might still be assembled in the
drawing-room, and he wished to avoid making his unannounced entrance
among them.

It was not till now that he felt the embarrassment of such an arrival.
For some time past he had known that he ought to go back to Lynbrook,
but he had not known how to tell Bessy that he was coming. Lack of habit
made him inexpert in the art of easy transitions, and his inability to
bridge over awkward gaps had often put him at a disadvantage with his
wife and her friends. He had not yet learned the importance of observing
the forms which made up the daily ceremonial of their lives, and at
present there was just enough soreness between himself and Bessy to make
such observances more difficult than usual.

There had been no open estrangement, but peace had been preserved at the
cost of a slowly accumulated tale of grievances on both sides. Since
Amherst had won his point about the mills, the danger he had foreseen
had been realized: his victory at Westmore had been a defeat at
Lynbrook. It would be too crude to say that his wife had made him pay
for her public concession by the private disregard of his wishes; and if
something of this sort had actually resulted, his sense of fairness told
him that it was merely the natural reaction of a soft nature against the
momentary strain of self-denial. At first he had been hardly aware of
this consequence of his triumph. The joy of being able to work his will
at Westmore obscured all lesser emotions; and his sentiment for Bessy
had long since shrunk into one of those shallow pools of feeling which a
sudden tide might fill, but which could never again be the deep
perennial spring from which his life was fed.

The need of remaining continuously at Hanaford while the first changes
were making had increased the strain of the situation. He had never
expected that Bessy would stay there with him--had perhaps, at heart,
hardly wished it--and her plan of going to the Adirond