"Oh, I'm only tired. Here, I'll walk with you as far as your rooms. I want to get an evening paper anyway."
"Only tired? What's made you?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. But tell me your trouble first. That is, if you want to."
"Oh, my trouble!" she shrugged her shoulders. "Ordinary enough, Peter. But I don't think I can talk about it, if you don't mind—at least not yet. Only this. That I'm not engaged and I'm never going to be again. I'm a free woman Peter."
She felt then his whole body tremble against hers. For an instant his hand pressed against her side with such force that it hurt. Then he took his hand from her arm and walked apart. He walked in silence, rolling a little from leg to leg as was his way. And he said nothing. She waited. She expected him to ask some question. He said nothing. Then, when at last they were turning down into Baker Street, his voice husky, he said:
"My trouble is that my wife's come back."
It took her some little while to realize that—then she said:
"Your wife?"
"Yes, after nearly twenty years. Of course I don't mean that that's a trouble. But she's ill—very ill indeed. She's very unhappy. She's had a terrible time."