ddowson's eyes fell; his brow was wrinkled.

'He's often there, then?'

'I don't know. Perhaps he is. He's Miss Barfoot's cousin, you know.'

'You haven't seen him more than once before?'

'No. Why do you ask?'

'Oh, it was only that he seemed to speak as if you were old
acquaintances.'

'That's his way, I suppose.'

Monica had already learnt that the jealousy which Widdowson so often
betrayed before their manage still lurked in his mind. Perceiving why
he put these questions, she could not look entirely unconcerned, and
the sense of his eye being upon her caused her some annoyance.

'You talked to him, didn't you?' she said, changing her position in the
deep chair.

'Oh, the kind of talk that is possible with a perfect stranger. I
suppose he is in some profession?'

'I really don't know. Why, Edmund? Does he interest you?'

'Only that one likes to know something about the people that are
introduced to one's wife,' Widdowson answered rather acridly.

Their bedtime was half-past ten. Precisely at that moment Widdowson
closed his book--glad to be relieved from the pretence of reading--and
walked over the lower part of the house to see that all was right. He
had a passion for routine. Every night, before going upstairs, he did a
number of little things in unvarying sequence--changed the calendar for
next day, made perfect order on his writing-table, wound lip his watch,
and so on. That Monica could not direct her habits with like exactitude
was frequently a distress to him; if she chanced to forget any most
trivial detail of daily custom he looked very solemn, and begged her to
be more vigilant.

Next morning after breakfast, as Monica stood by the dining-room window
and looked rather cheerlessly at a leaden sky, her husband came towards
her as if he had something to say. She turned, and saw that his face no
longer wore the austere expression which had made her miserable last
night, and even during the meal this morning.

'Are we friends?' he said, with the attempt at playfulness which always
made him look particularly awkward.

'Of course we are,' Monica answered, smiling, but not regarding him.

'Didn't he behave gruffly last night to his little girl?'

'Just a little.'

'And what can the old bear do to show that he's sorry?'

'Never be gruff again.'

'The old bear is sometimes an old goose as well, and torments himself
in the silliest way. Tell him so, if ever he begins to behave badly.
Isn't i