and goings. As far as he could
ascertain he was rarely in London during June and early July. No doubt
he wrote to Lucy; James was pretty sure of it; yet he could not stoop
to examining envelopes, and had to leave that to Providence and
herself. He mingled with his uneasiness a high sense of her integrity,
which he could not imagine ever losing. It was, or might have been,
curious to observe the difference he made between his two jealousies.
He had been insolent to Francis Lingen, with his "Ha, Lingen, you
here?" He was markedly polite to Jimmy Urquhart, much more so than his
habit was. He used to accompany him to the door when he left, an
unheard-of attention. But that may have been because Lucy went thither
also.

As a matter of fact Urquhart saw very little of her. He was very much
away, on his aerial and other affairs, and did not care to come to the
house unless James was there, nor, naturally, very much when he was.
They mostly met in the Park, rarely at other people's houses. Once she
lunched at the Nugents' and had the afternoon alone with him; twice he
drove her to Kew Gardens; once she asked him for a week-end to
Wycross, and they had some talks and a walk. He wrote perhaps once a
week, and she answered him perhaps once a fortnight. Not more. She had
to put the screw on herself to outdo him in frugality. She respected
him enormously for his mastery of himself, and could not have told how
much it enhanced her love. It was really comical that precisely what
she had condemned James for she found admirable in Jimmy. James had
neglected her for his occupations, and Jimmy was much away about his.
In the first case she resented, in the second she was not far from
adoration of such a sign of serious strength.

They never alluded directly to what had happened, but sometimes hinted
at it. These hints were always hers, for Urquhart was a random talker,
said what came into his head and had no eye for implications. He made
one odd remark, and made it abruptly, as if it did not affect anybody
present. "It's a very funny thing," he said, "that last year I didn't
know Macartney had a wife, and now, six months later, I don't realise
that you have got a husband." It made her laugh inwardly, but she said
gently, "Try to realise it. It's true."

"You wish me to make a point of it?" he asked her that with a shrewd
look.

"I wish you, naturally, to realise me as I am."

"There doesn't seem much of you involved in it," he said