“Hello, Madeline!” he said.
His wife came toward him. He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.
“Nice and warm in here,” he observed. “I’ll go and have a wash and brush up, and get ready for dinner.”
It was hard for him to speak at all, fatigue so weighed upon him. He went up the stairs, forcing himself to a brisk pace, entered his room, and locked the door. Then suddenly he thought of things for his speech to-morrow—just the things he had wanted. He pulled out his notebook and fountain pen and began to make notes.
“Mustn’t be late for dinner, though,” he thought.
He took off his coat and went toward his bathroom. Then he thought of a most effective sentence and hurried back to the table.
“If I could have a quiet hour now!” he thought. “But that’s not fair to Madeline.”
He came down at the proper time, with more and more ideas for that speech running through his mind, and entered the drawing-room again. Madeline was sitting there, stretched out in a lounge chair, and Charles stood beside her. They were laughing at something.
Again that curious disquiet seized Wickham Hackett. He stood in the doorway, looking at her, and it seemed to him that somehow she had changed.
All through dinner Wickham’s eyes sought his wife’s face with covert anxiety. She was as cool, as gay, as gracious as ever—a tall young creature, exquisitely cared for, with shining dark hair and a delicate, half disdainful face. He had never seen her ill-tempered or impatient, had never known her to be anything but kind to him, and courteous and lovely; and she was so to-night. He must have been dreaming to fancy that there was a change, a shadow upon her unruffled beauty!