"William, darling," she exclaimed, "how nice of you to come home so early. I must introduce you to Mr. Treves."
John rose and bowed. Beecher Monmouth put a large bony hand in his. He had just returned from the House of Commons, and looked weary and old; he looked every one of his sixty-four years. John wondered whether he ought to stay or not, but Mrs. Beecher Monmouth solved the situation by holding out her hand.
"You must come and see me again, Mr. Treves." Her tone was almost motherly. He shook hands with her, and saw her move towards her husband and slip her arm through his.
Husband and wife were standing together as the maid conducted John downstairs.
"What a monument of treachery and deceit she is," thought John, as he stepped out into the starlit night.
In the meantime Mrs. Beecher Monmouth had pressed her ungainly husband into a deep arm-chair, had commanded that whisky and soda should be brought, and was already holding the match that lit his cigar. Beecher Monmouth watched her with admiration in his tired eyes. He was prepared to sell his soul for her, and was never weary of telling her that he was the luckiest man in the world to have won her love.
"And what did my William do to-night?" she inquired, softly, when the whisky and soda had been placed at his side, and he had helped himself to a somewhat liberal dose.
"A most boring evening," said Beecher Monmouth. "Irish question!"
"And you saw no one interesting?" asked she.
"I saw Brackston Neeve in the lobby," answered her husband. "There is some talk of a military expedition to ——. I don't know whether it will come off or not. The Cabinet, I believe, discussed it yesterday."