She had watched him once from her window, and had wondered vaguely what he found to do at night.
Was he seeking relaxation from an intolerable position? He never gave her the impression that it was intolerable. There was comfort in that thought.
Was there—somebody else?
Here was a question to make her knit her brows, this loveless wife.
Once she found herself, to her intense amazement, on the verge of tears at the thought. She went through all the stages of doubt and decision, of anger and contrition, which a young wife more happily circumstanced might have experienced.
Who was the violin player with the beautiful face? What part had she taken in Gilbert’s life?
One thing she did know, her husband was gambling on the Stock Exchange. At first she did not realise that he could be so commonplace. She had always regarded him as a man to whom vulgar money-grabbing would be repugnant. He had surrendered his position at the Foreign Office; he was now engaged in some business which neither discussed. She thought many things, but until she discovered the contract note of a broker upon his desk, she had never suspected success on the Stock Exchange as the goal of his ambition.
This transaction seemed an enormous one to her.
There were tens of thousands of shares detailed upon the note. She knew very little about the Stock Exchange, except that there had been mornings when her mother had been unbearable as a result of her losses. Then it occurred to her, if he were in business—a vague term which meant anything—she might do something more than sit at home and direct his servants.
She might help him also in another way. Business men have expedient dinners, give tactful theatre parties. And many men have succeeded because they have wives who are wise in their generation.
It was a good thought. She held a grand review of her wardrobe, and posted the letter which so completely destroyed her mother’s peace of mind.
Gilbert had been out all the morning, and he came back from the City looking rather tired.
An exchange of smiles, a little strained and a little hard on one side, a little wistful and a little sad on the other, had become the conventional greeting between the two, so too had the inquiry, “Did you sleep well?” which was the legitimate property of whosoever thought first of this original question.
They were in the midst of lunch when she asked suddenly—
“Would you like me to give a dinner party?”
He looked up with a start.
“A dinner party!” he said incredulously, then, seeing her face drop, and realising something of the sacrifice which she might be making, he added, “I think it is an excellent idea. Whom would you like to invite?”
“Any friends you have,” she said, “that rather nice man Mr. Frankfort, and—Who else?” she asked.
He smiled a little grimly.
“I think that rather nice man Mr. Frankfort about exhausts the sum of my friends,” he said with a little laugh. “We might ask Warrell.”
“Who is Warrell? Oh, I know,” she said quickly, “he is mother’s broker.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Your mother’s broker,” he repeated slowly, “is he really?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?” he evaded.
“Why did you say that so queerly?”
“I did not know that I did,” he said carelessly, “only somehow one doesn’t associate your mother with a broker. Yet I suppose she finds an agent necessary in these days. You see, he is my broker too.”
“Who else?” she asked.
“On my side of the family,” he said with mock solemnity, “I can think of nobody. What about your mother?”
“I could ask one or two nice people,” she went on, ignoring the suggestion.
“What about your mother?” he said again.
She looked up, her eyes filled with tears.
“Please do not be horrid,” she said. “You know that is impossible.”
“Not at all,” he answered cheerfully. “I made the suggestion in all good faith; I think it is a good one. After all, there is no reason why this absurd quarrel should go on. I admit I felt very sore with her; but then I even felt sore with you!”
He looked at her not unkindly.
“The soreness is gradually wearing away,” he said.
He spoke half to himself, though he looked at the girl. It seemed to her that he was trying to convince himself of something in which he did not wholly believe.
“It is extraordinary,” he said, “how little things, little worries, and petty causes for unhappiness disappear in the face of a really great trouble.”
“What is your great trouble?” she asked, quick to seize the advantage which he had given her in that unguarded moment.
“None,” he said. His tone was a little louder than usual, it was almost defiant. “I am speaking hypothetically.
“I have no trouble save the very obvious troubles of life,” he went on. “You were a trouble to me for quite a little time, but you are not any more.”
“I am glad you said that,” she said softly. “I want to be real good friends with you, Gilbert—I want to be a real good friend to you. I have made rather a hash of your life, I’m afraid.”
She had risen from the table and stood looking down at him.
He shook his head.
“I do not think you have,” he said, “not the hash that you imagine. Other circumstances have conspired to disfigure what was a pleasant outlook. It is unfortunate that our marriage has not proved to be all that I dreamt it would be, but then dreams are very unstable foundations to the fabric of life. You would not think that I was a dreamer, would you?” he said quickly with that ready smile of his, those eyes that creased into little lines at the corners. “You would not imagine me as a romancist, though I am afraid I was.”
“You are, you mean,” she corrected.
He made no reply to that.
The question of the dinner came up later, when he was preparing to go out.
“You would not like to
