"Hooray!" cried Geoffrey Alison, catching some of the great moment's fire. "Blatchley will be bucked. He was immensely keen."
"Bother Blatchley," answered Helena. "I think he has behaved disgracefully and it is all his fault. But I can't stand this any longer; Hugh won't even speak to me; besides, if I write other books about quite different husbands, nobody can say they are all us."
"Excellent," said the other, grasping the involved idea at once, "and so——"
Helena laughed. "So now I'm going to write one about a woman married to an artist, and you must give me all the local colour."
"Shall I be Zoë's husband?" he asked eagerly. It still pleased him to say things like that.
"Oh no," she said, unconsciously ruthless, "no more than Hugh was the first; but I mean you must tell me what—well, what artists do."
"They paint," he answered gravely; and that made her laugh again. Ally was not a man to trust; she had been a real fool; but he was splendid company. He told her everything that artists did. He made her laugh a lot. Those endless hours of misery seemed nightmares of the past—until she was alone again.
But when business released Hubert Brett conveniently in time for their silent meal, he found in the hall a wife somehow less broken and submissive; less the girl-penitent serving a long sentence, much more a woman with secret laughter playing round the hard lines of her mouth.
"I'm glad you've got back," she said in the usual tone. "I took your advice and asked Mr. Alison to tea."
He had the sense to make no answer. But back in his study, he was weak enough to slam the door. And she was glad to hear it.