r VI

The next morning Henry was very quiet at the breakfast-table. He said
good-morning to Horace in almost a surly manner, and Sylvia glanced
from one to the other of the two men. After Horace had gone to school
she went out in the front yard to interview Henry, who was pottering
about the shrubs which grew on either side of the gravel walk.

"What on earth ailed you and Mr. Allen this morning?" she began,
abruptly.

Henry continued digging around the roots of a peony. "I don't know as
anything ailed us. I don't know what you are driving at," he replied,
lying unhesitatingly.

"Something did ail you. You can't cheat me."

"I don't know what you are driving at."

"Something did ail you. You'll spoil that peony. You've got all the
weeds out. What on earth are you digging round it that way for? What
ailed you?"

"I don't know what you are driving at."

"You can't cheat me. Something is to pay. For the land's sake, leave
that peony alone, and get the weeds out from around that syringa
bush. You act as if you were possessed. What ailed you and Mr. Allen
this morning? I want to know."

"I don't know what you are driving at," Henry said again, but he
obediently turned his attention to the syringa bush. He always obeyed
a woman in small matters, and reserved his masculine prerogatives for
large ones.

Sylvia returned to the house. Her mouth was set hard. Nobody knew how
on occasions Sylvia longed for another woman to whom to speak her
mind. She loved her husband, but no man was capable of entirely
satisfying all her moods. She started to go to the attic on another
exploring expedition; then she stopped suddenly, reflecting. The end
of her reflection was that she took off her gingham apron, tied on a
nice white one trimmed with knitted lace, and went down the street to
Mrs. Thomas P. Ayres's. Thomas P. Ayres had been dead for the last
ten years, but everybody called his widow Mrs. T. P. Ayres. Mrs.
Ayres kept no maid. She had barely enough income to support herself
and her daughter. She came to the door herself. She was a small,
delicate, pretty woman, and her little thin hands were red with
dish-water.

"Good-morning," she said, in a weary, gentle fashion. "Come in, Mrs.
Whitman, won't you?" As she spoke she wrinkled her forehead between
her curves of gray hair. She had always wrinkled her forehead, but in
some inscrutable fashion the wrinkles had always smoothed out. Her
forehead was smooth as a girl's. She