-and they were many--she thought constantly of
Wargrave; his face was ever before her, his voice sounding in her ears.
She usually saw her husband--absorbed in his work and studies--only at
meals; and as she looked across the table at him then she could not help
contrasting the heavy, unattractive man sitting silent, usually reading
a book while he ate, with the good-looking, laughter-loving playfellow
who had come into her life. She learned to day-dream of Wargrave, to
watch for his coming and hate his going, to enjoy every moment of his
presence. He had brought a new interest into her hitherto purposeless
life, the life that he had preserved and that consequently seemed to
belong to him. New feelings awakened in her. The world was a brighter,
happier place than it had been. It pleased her to realise what it all
meant, to know that the novel sensations, the fluttering hopes and
fears, the strange, delightful thrills, were all symptoms of that
longed-for malady that comes sooner or later to all women. She knew at
last that she loved Wargrave and gloried in the knowledge. And she never
doubted that he loved her in return.

Did he? It was hard to tell. To a man the thought of Love in the
abstract seldom occurs; and the realisation of the concrete fact that
he is in love with some particular woman generally comes somewhat as a
shock. He is by nature a lover of freedom and in theory at least resents
fetters, even silken ones. And Wargrave had never thought of analysing
his feelings towards Violet. He was not a professional amorist and,
although not a puritan, would never set himself deliberately to make
love to a married woman under her husband's roof. He was fond of Mrs.
Norton--as a sister, he thought. She was a delightful friend, a real
pal, so understanding, so companionable, he said to himself frequently.
It had not occurred to him that his feelings for her might be love. He
had often before been on terms of friendship with women, married and
single; but none of them had ever attracted him as much as she did. He
had never felt any desire to be married; domesticity did not appeal to
him. But now, as he watched Violet moving about her drawing-room or
playing to him, he found himself thinking that it would be pleasant to
return to his bungalow from parade and find a pretty little wife waiting
to greet him with a smile and a kiss--and the wife of his dreams always
had Violet's face, wore smart well-cut frocks like Violet's,