from three to six; it was only when dread of the future began to press upon him that he sat in the study all day long. You see how complicated were the miseries of the situation; one torment involved another, and in every quarter subjects of discontent were multiplied.
Mrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did not regard her as strictly an intimate. They addressed each other by their Christian names, and conversed without ceremony; but Amy was always dissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst with laughter and animated talk into this abode of concealed poverty. Edith was not the kind of person with whom one can quarrel; she had a kind heart, and was never disagreeably pretentious. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy would have given frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been glad to accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at present it did her harm to come in contact with Mrs Carter; it made her envious, cold to her husband, resentful against fate.
‘Why can’t she leave me alone?’ was the thought that rose in her mind as Edith entered. ‘I shall let her see that I don’t want her here.’
‘Your husband at work?’ Edith asked, with a glance in the direction of the study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and greetings.
‘Yes, he is busy.’
‘And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out; an afternoon of sunshine isn’t to be neglected at this time of year.’
‘Is there sunshine?’ Amy inquired coldly.
‘Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven’t noticed it? What a comical person you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over head and ears in books all day. How is Willie?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Mayn’t I see him?’
‘If you like.’
Amy stepped to the bedroom door and bade the servant bring Willie for exhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own, always showed the most flattering admiration of this infant; it was so manifestly sincere that the mother could not but be moved to a grateful friendliness whenever she listened to its expression. Even this afternoon the usual effect followed when Edith had made a pretty and tender fool of herself for several minutes. Amy bade the servant make tea.
At this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon looked in.
‘Well, if this isn’t marvellous!’ cried Edith. ‘I should as soon have expected the heavens to fall!’
‘As what?’ asked Reardon, with a pale smile.
‘As you to show yourself when I am here.’
‘I should like to say that I came on purpose to see you, Mrs Carter, but it wouldn’t be true. I’m going out for an hour, so that you can take possession of the other room if you like, Amy.’
‘Going out?’ said Amy, with a look of surprise.
‘Nothing—nothing. I mustn’t stay.’
He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew. The door of the flat was heard to close after him.
‘Let us go into the study, then,’ said Amy, again in rather a cold voice.
On Reardon’s desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith, approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with a laugh to her friend.
‘How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have been tempted to try if I couldn’t write a story.’
‘Have you?’
‘And I’m sure I don’t know how you can resist the temptation. I feel sure you could write books almost as clever as your husband’s.’
‘I have no intention of trying.’
‘You don’t seem very well to-day, Amy.’
‘Oh, I think I am as well as usual.’
She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, and this darkened her humour again.
‘One of my reasons for corning,’ said Edith, ‘was to beg and entreat and implore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next Wednesday. Now, don’t put on such a severe face! Are you engaged that evening?’
‘Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can’t possibly leave his work.’
‘But for one poor evening! It’s such ages since we saw you.’
‘I’m very sorry. I don’t think we shall ever be able to accept invitations in future.’
Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute ago, no such definite declaration was in her mind.
‘Never?’ exclaimed Edith. ‘But why? Whatever do you mean?’
‘We find that social engagements consume too much time,’ Amy replied, her explanation just as much of an impromptu as the announcement had been. ‘You see, one must either belong to society or not. Married people can’t accept an occasional invitation from friends and never do their social duty in return.
We have decided to withdraw altogether—at all events for the present. I shall see no one except my
