Slowly going up the broad flight of steps leading to his house, he drew out his latch-key. As he unlocked the door, a bevy of girls came trooping through the hall—some of his wife’s friends. His face cleared as he took off his hat and stood aside for them to pass.
For a minute the air was gay with merry parting, then the girls were gone, and he went slowly up to his room.
“Mrs. Stanisfield is in the dining-room, sir,” said a servant, addressing him a few minutes later, as he stood in the hall with an air of great abstraction. “Dinner has just been served.”
“Oh, Roger,” said his wife, as he entered the room where she sat at the table, “I didn’t know you’d come! You told me not to wait for you. I shall be glad when you take up your old habit of coming home in the middle of the afternoon.”
“I am very busy now,” he muttered, as he took his place.
“Does your head ache?” inquired Margaretta, when several courses had been passed through in silence on his part.
“Yes, it is splitting.”
Young Mrs. Stanisfield bent her fair head over her plate, and discreetly made only an occasional remark until the pudding was removed, and the table-maid had withdrawn from the room. Then she surreptitiously examined her husband’s face.
He was thoughtfully surveying the fruit on the table.
“Margaretta,” he said, boyishly, “I don’t care much for puddings and pastry.”