She would be inflexible—he knew her. His mind dwelt on the beautiful first days of their marriage, the tenderness and the dream! And now—!
He heard footsteps in the study; the door was opened! It was Gertrude! He could see her in the dusk. She had returned! Why? She tripped to the desk, leaned forward and snatched at the letter. Evidently she did not know that he was in the house and had read it.
The tension was too painful. A sigh broke from him, as it were of physical torture.
"Who's there?" she cried, in a startled voice. "Is that you, Cloud?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"But you're home very early!" Her voice shook.
"I'm not well, Gertrude," he replied. "I'm tired. I came in here to lie down. Can't you do something for my head? I must have a holiday."
He heard her crunch up the letter, and then she hastened to him in the dressing-room.
"My poor Cloud!" she said, bending over him in the mature elegance of her thirty years. He noticed her travelling costume. "Some eau de Cologne?"
He nodded weakly.