“I really don’t know. Why, Edmund? Does he interest you?”
“Only that one likes to know something about the people that are introduced to one’s wife,” Widdowson answered rather acridly.
Their bedtime was half-past ten. Precisely at that moment Widdowson closed his book—glad to be relieved from the pretence of reading—and walked over the lower part of the house to see that all was right. He had a passion for routine. Every night, before going upstairs, he did a number of little things in unvarying sequence—changed the calendar for next day, made perfect order on his writing-table, wound up his watch, and so on. That Monica could not direct her habits with like exactitude was frequently a distress to him; if she chanced to forget any most trivial detail of daily custom he looked very solemn, and begged her to be more vigilant.
Next morning after breakfast, as Monica stood by the dining-room window and looked rather cheerlessly at a leaden sky, her husband came towards her as if he had something to say. She turned, and saw that his face no longer wore the austere expression which had made her miserable last night, and even during the meal this morning.
“Are we friends?” he said, with the attempt at playfulness which always made him look particularly awkward.
“Of course we are,” Monica answered, smiling, but not regarding him.
“Didn’t he behave gruffly last night to his little girl?”
“Just a little.”
“And what can the old bear do to show that he’s sorry?”
“Never be gruff again.”