"I beg pardon, sir," she said, "but could you tell me where I can get some good whiskey?"
"Whiskey?" Ashley exclaimed in surprise.
"Mr. Fenning, sir, used to be particular about his whiskey, and as he's—"
"Oh, yes, of course, Janet." He thought for a moment and mentioned the wine merchant with whom Lord Bowdon dealt. "I think you'll be safe there," he ended with a nod.
Janet thanked him and went out.
"This really brings it home," said Ashley, dropping into a chair and laughing weakly to himself. "Tomorrow night Jack Fenning'll sit here and drink that whiskey, while I—"
He rose abruptly and walked about the room. His portrait in the silver frame was still on the little table by Ora's favourite seat; not even a letter from Bridgeport, Connecticut, was there to hint of Mr. Fenning. The demand for a good whiskey seemed the sole forerunner of the wanderer's return.
"She doesn't know in the least what she's doing," Ashley muttered as he flung himself into his seat again.
That afternoon she was in the mood hardest for him to bear. She was sanguine about her husband; she recalled the short time they had contrived to be happy together, dwelt on the amiable points in his character, ascribed his weaknesses more to circumstances than to nature, and took on her own shoulders a generous share of blame for the household's shipwreck. All this is to say that the reformation for the instant took precedence of the renunciation, and a belief in the possibility, not perhaps of being happy with Jack, but at least of making Jack happy, was bedecked in the robes of a virtuous aspiration. "It would be no use having him back if I couldn't make him happy, would it?" she asked. She shewed sometimes this strange forgetfulness of her friend's feelings.
"I know I've got a photograph of him somewhere," she said with a troubled little frown. "I wonder where it is!" Then a lucky thought brought a smile. "I expect he'd like to see it on the mantel-piece, wouldn't he?" she cried, turning to Ashley.