He sat down on a sofa as he spoke and stared at his wife with a puzzled expression between his brows.
"What in the world are you in that heavy black for?" he said suddenly.
"I must wear it," she said. "You cannot ask me to take it off."
"Why should I ask you?" he replied. "Do not excite yourself in that way, Maggie. If you like to look hideous, do so. Black, heavy black, of that sort, does not suit you—and you are absolutely in crêpe—what does all this mean? It irritates me immensely."
"People wear crêpe when those they love die," said Margaret.
"Have you lost a relation?—Who?"
She did not answer. A moment later she left the room.
When she did so Awdrey got up restlessly, walked to the fire and poked it, then he approached the window and looked out. After a time he returned to his seat. Mrs. Everett sat facing him. It was her wont to sit very still—often nothing seemed to move about her except her watchful eyes. To-day she had more than ever the expression of a person who is quietly watching and waiting. Awdrey, inert as he doubtlessly was, seemed to feel her gaze—he looked at her.
"Where have you been, Mr. Awdrey?" she asked gently. "Did you visit the Continent?"
He favored her with a keen, half-suspicious glance.