courtesy that they had become
profoundly formal. This morning Anne's courtesy was coloured by some
emotion that defied analysis. She wore her new mood like a soft veil
that heightened her attraction in obscuring it.

He watched her with a baffled preoccupation that kept him unusually
quiet. His quietness did him good service with Anne in her new mood.

When the meal was over she rose and went to the window. The sedate
Georgian street was full of the day that shone soberly here from the cool
clear north.

"What are you thinking of?" said he.

"I'm thinking what a beautiful day it is."

"Yes, isn't it a jolly day?"

"If it's beautiful here, what must it be in the country?"

"The country?" A thought struck him. "I say, would you like to go there?"

"Do you mean to-day?"

Her upper lip lifted, and the two teeth showed again on the pale rose of
its twin. In spite of the dignity of her proportions, Anne had the look
of a child contemplating some hardly permissible delight.

"Now, this minute. There's a train to Westleydale at nine fifty."

"It would be very nice. But--how about business?"

"Business be--"

"No, no, _not_ that word."

"But it is, you know; it can't help itself. There's a devil in all the
offices in Scale at this time of the year."

"Would _you_ like it?"

"I? Rather. I'm on!"

"But--Edith--oh no, we can't."

She turned with a sudden gesture of renunciation, so that she faced him
where he stood smiling at her. His face grew grave for her.

"Look here," he said, "you mustn't be morbid about Edith. It isn't
necessary. All the time we're gone, she'll be there, in perfect bliss
with simply thinking of the good time _we_'re having."

"But her back's bad to-day."

"Then she'll be glad that we're not there to feel it. Her back will add
to her happiness, if anything."

She drew in a sharp breath, as if he had hurt her.

"Oh, Walter, how can you?"

He replied with emphasis. "How can I? I can, not because I'm a brute, as
you seem to suppose, but because she's a saint and an angel. I take off
my hat and go down on my knees when I think of her. Go and put _your_
hat on."

She felt herself diminished, humbled, and in two ways. It was as if he
had said: "You are not the saint that Edith is, nor yet the connoisseur
in saintship that I am."

She knew that she was not the one; but to the other distinction she
certainly fancied that she had the superior claim. And she had never yet
come behind