Their eyes met. Barfoot bent forward from his place opposite Monica.
“To me the most interesting of all faces,” he said softly.
His companion blushed with surprise and pleasure.
“Does it seem strange to you, Mrs. Widdowson?”
“Oh—why? Not at all.”
All at once she had brightened astonishingly. This subject was not pursued, but for the rest of the time they talked with a new appearance of mutual confidence and interest, Monica retaining her pretty, half-bashful smile. And when Barfoot alighted at Bayswater they shook hands with an especial friendliness, both seeming to suggest a wish that they might soon meet again.
They did so not later than the following Monday. Remembering what Mrs. Widdowson had said of her intention to visit Burlington House, Barfoot went there in the afternoon. If he chanced to encounter the pretty little woman it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps her husband might be with her, and in that case he could judge of the terms on which they stood. A surly fellow, Widdowson; very likely to play the tyrant, he thought. If he were not mistaken, she had wearied of him and regretted her bondage—the old story. Thinking thus, and strolling through the rooms with casual glances at a picture, he discovered his acquaintance, catalogue in hand, alone for the present. Her pensive face again answered to his smile. They drew back from the pictures and sat down.
“I dined with our friends at Chelsea on Saturday evening,” said Barfoot.
“On Saturday? You didn’t tell me you were going back again.”
“I wasn’t thinking of it just at the time.”