Never mind. Her husband would come this evening. Of him she could learn without humiliation.
His arrival was later than of wont. Only at eleven o’clock, when with disappointment she had laid aside her book to go to bed, did Tarrant’s rap sound on the window.
‘I had given you up,’ said Nancy.
‘Yet you are quite good-tempered.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is the pleasant custom of wives to make a husband uncomfortable if he comes late.’
‘Then I am no true wife!’ laughed Nancy.
‘Something much better,’ Tarrant muttered, as he threw off his overcoat.
He began to talk of ordinary affairs, and nearly half-an-hour elapsed before any mention was made of the event that had bettered their prospects. Nancy looked over a piece of his writing in an evening paper which he had brought; but she could not read it with attention. The paper fell to her lap, and she sat silent. Clearly, Tarrant would not be the first to speak of what was in both their minds. The clock ticked; the rain pattered without; the journalist smoked his pipe and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling.
‘Are you sorry,’ Nancy asked, ‘that I am no longer penniless?’