till, and the intensity of her gaze drew Mr.
Chalk's eyes to her face despite his will. For a few seconds she gazed
at him in silence, and then, drawing her skirts together, swept violently
out of the room.

CHAPTER VII

Mr. Chalk made but a poor breakfast next morning, the effort to display a
feeling of proper sympathy with Mrs. Chalk, who was presiding in gloomy
silence at the coffee-pot, and at the same time to maintain an air of
cheerful innocence as to the cause of her behaviour, being almost beyond
his powers. He chipped his egg with a painstaking attempt to avoid
noise, and swallowed each mouthful with a feeble pretence of not knowing
that she was watching him as he ate. Her glance conveyed a scornful
reproach that he could eat at all in such circumstances, and, that there
might be no mistake as to her own feelings, she ostentatiously pushed the
toast-rack and egg-stand away from her.

"You--you're not eating, my dear," said Mr. Chalk.

"If I ate anything it would choke me," was the reply.

Mr. Chalk affected surprise, but his voice quavered. To cover his
discomfiture he passed his cup up for more coffee, shivering despite
himself, as he noticed the elaborate care which Mrs. Chalk displayed in
rinsing out the cup and filling it to the very brim. Beyond raising her
eyes to the ceiling when he took another piece of toast, she made no
sign.

[Illustration: "He passed his cup up for more coffee."]

"You're not looking yourself," ventured Mr. Chalk, after a time.

His wife received the information silence.

"I've noticed it for some time," said the thoughtful husband, making
another effort. "It's worried me."

"I'm not getting younger, I know," assented Mrs. Chalk. "But if you
think that that's any excuse for your goings on, you're mistaken."

Mr. Chalk murmured something to the effect that he did not understand
her.

"You understand well enough," was the reply. "When that girl came
whistling over the fence last night you said you thought it was a bird."

"I did," said Mr. Chalk, hastily taking a spoonful of egg.

Mrs. Chalk's face flamed. "What sort of bird?" she demanded.

"Singin' bird," replied her husband, with nervous glibness.

Mrs. Chalk left the room.

Mr. Chalk finished his breakfast with an effort, and then, moving to the
window, lit his pipe and sat for some time in moody thought. A little
natural curiosity as to the identity of the fair whistler would, however,
not be