She left him after tea, and he heard music going on in the drawing-room and the children's happy voices. But he sat on over the fire with moody, discontented eyes.
"I shall get jealous of my own children," he muttered. "Who was it told me I was too cold-blooded for jealousy? Why, it was Malcolm Dermot. He was wrong."
He sat there cogitating; an unhappy man, who was just beginning to see chinks of light through the clouds of mistrust and bitterness that were spoiling his life.
When the children's hour was over, Anstice came back to her room and was surprised to see her husband still there.
"Do you want me gone?" he asked her, making a movement in his chair.
"Oh, no," she said gently; "I like to see you there."
He looked up at her.
"Come and put your hand on my shoulder as you did a short while ago and tell me that you forgive me for my selfishness and bad temper. I won't be a tyrant. You must prevent my being so."
She came up to him.
"There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I ought to feel glad that you wanted me with you this afternoon."