"Why, what's the matter?" he asked anxiously.
"I did not know what it was," she answered. "You frightened me."
"That makes me certain you're not very well. I must have the doctor over to see you to-morrow morning, if you don't feel better."
"I shall be all right in the morning. I think I am over-tired to-night."
"Perhaps Merton's music has given you a headache. I think he thumps a little hard for my taste."
This was scarcely the truth. He had never really thought so, but he wanted to find some reason for her downcast demeanour. She did not answer. Then suddenly, and without any apparent reason, she turned to him, and throwing her arms round his neck, sobbed upon his shoulder as if her heart were breaking.
"Why, Esther, my darling," he cried, this time in real alarm, "what on earth does this all mean? You frighten me, dearest. Try and tell me what is the matter with you." He led her to a chair, placed her in it, and seated himself beside her. "Come, try and tell me what it is, and let me help you. You frighten me dreadfully."
"It is nothing, nothing, nothing; Oh, Cuthbert, my husband, bear with me to-night. Don't be angry with me, I beseech you. You don't know how the memory of this night will always remain with me."
"You are very mysterious to-night. I can't think what you mean."
"Don't ask to be told. Indeed, I could not tell you. I don't know myself. I only know that I am more miserable to-night than I have ever been in my life before."