“Yes, but one must always be punctual. I wish I could impress that upon you. Life without punctuality is quite impossible.”
“I’m very sorry, Edmund. I will be more careful. Please don’t lecture me, dear. How shall we go home?”
“We had better take a cab to Victoria. No knowing how long we may have to wait for a train when we get there.”
“Now don’t be so grumpy. Where have you been all the time?”
“Oh, walking about. What else was I to do?”
On the drive they held no conversation. At Victoria they were delayed about half an hour before a train started for Herne Hill; Monica sat in a waiting-room, and her husband trudged about the platform, still clumping rhythmically with his stick.
Their Sunday custom was to dine at one o’clock, and at six to have tea. Widdowson hated the slightest interference with domestic routine, and he had reluctantly indulged Monica’s desire to go to Chelsea this afternoon. Hunger was now added to his causes of discontent.
“Let us have something to eat at once,” he said on entering the house. “This disorder really won’t do: we must manage better somehow.”
Without replying, Monica rang the dining-room bell, and gave orders.
Little change had been made in the interior of the house since its master’s marriage. The dressing-room adjoining the principal bed-chamber was adapted to Monica’s use, and a few ornaments were added to the drawing-room. Unlike his deceased brother, Widdowson had the elements of artistic taste; in furnishing his abode he took counsel with approved decorators, and at moderate cost had made himself a home which presented no original features, but gave no offence to a cultivated eye. The first sight of the rooms pleased Monica greatly. She declared that all was perfect, nothing need be altered. In those days, if she had bidden him spend a hundred pounds on reconstruction, the lover would have obeyed, delighted to hear her express a wish.