ss and violent
breach of taste.

'What madness,' he thought, 'gets into women! It would serve her right
if I slept here!'

He looked around him. There was no place where he could sleep, not
even a sofa, and taking up the candle, he moved towards the door. But a
feeling of hesitation and forlornness rising, he knew not whence, made
him pause irresolute before the window.

The young moon, riding low, shot her light upon his still, lean figure,
and in that light it was strange to see how grey he looked--grey from
head to foot, grey, and sad, and old, as though in summary of all the
squires who in turn had looked upon that prospect frosted with young
moonlight to the boundary of their lands. Out in the paddock he saw his
old hunter Bob, with his head turned towards the house; and from the
very bottom of his heart he sighed.

In answer to that sigh came a sound of something falling outside against
the door. He opened it to see what might be there. The spaniel John,
lying on a cushion of blue linen, with his head propped up against the
wall, darkly turned his eyes.

'I am here, master,' he seemed to say; 'it is late--I was about to go
to sleep; it has done me good, however, to see you;' and hiding his eyes
from the light under a long black ear, he drew a stertorous breath. Mr.
Pendyce shut-to the door. He had forgotten the existence of his dog.
But, as though with the sight of that faithful creature he had regained
belief in all that he was used to, in all that he was master of, in all
that was--himself, he opened the bedroom door and took his place beside
his wife.

And soon he was asleep.

PART III

CHAPTER I

MRS. PENDYCE'S ODYSSEY

But Mrs. Pendyce did not sleep. That blessed anodyne of the long day
spent in his farmyards and fields was on her husband's eyes--no anodyne
on hers; and through them, all that was deep, most hidden, sacred, was
laid open to the darkness. If only those eyes could have been seen that
night! But if the darkness had been light, nothing of all this so deep
and sacred would have been there to see, for more deep, more sacred
still, in Margery Pendyce, was the instinct of a lady. So elastic and so
subtle, so interwoven of consideration for others and consideration for
herself, so old, so very old, this instinct wrapped her from all eyes,
like a suit of armour of the finest chain. The night must have been
black indeed when she took that off and lay without it in the darkness.