“She is dying, is she not?”
“Yes, of consumption; and she is only my age. If I were like her I should be glad to go—only for Maurice.”
A long and truly eloquent silence, lasting for fully a quarter of a mile. Alice thought of the last time they had walked together arm-in-arm up and down the long gallery at Looton, the evening before he had started for Cannes. What an age it seemed since then! What changes had occurred! He was more changed than all else, she felt, as she stole a glance at him. His clear-cut profile looked coldly severe in the moonlight, his eyes were fixed on the horizon, and his thoughts seemed at least a thousand miles away. The moon, which had risen behind the park trees, was now sailing proudly overhead, and looked down full-faced on this strangely-silent couple.
The rattle of an approaching dog-cart and the sound of a horse’s hoofs aroused them from their reflections.
Two young men in evening dress, evidently going out to dinner. They favoured Alice with a hard stare, and Reginald with a knowing look, as they dashed past.
“Pretty girl!” and “Lucky dog!” was borne upon the breeze as they rounded a corner, leaving behind them a cloud of dust.
As Alice put up her hand to ward off a volume of it, her wedding-ring glittered in the moonlight, and, for the first time, caught her husband’s eye.
“So you have replaced your wedding-ring, I see,” he observed, as they entered the avenue-gates.
“I have,” she replied in a low voice.
“What an interesting ceremony it must have been,” he remarked sarcastically.