Lenox, with a keen glance at his wife's face, followed the Desmonds into the verandah, and helped Honor into her seat.
"You'll keep your promise, won't you?" she pleaded. "And go straight to bed without even looking into your study. Never mind if the lamp burns there all night. You can charge me for the kerosene!"
"That's a bargain then," he answered, laughing. "It's like old times to have you laying commands on me again!"
"Not only to-night, remember: a whole week of nights and more."
"Trust me. I have promised. Good-night, Mrs Desmond, and thank you."
As the dog-cart turned into the open road, Honor spoke: "Theo, if she lets him go to pieces again . . . I shall never, never forgive her."
There was a break in her low voice, and Desmond slipping a hand through her arm, pressed it close against him.
"You dear blessed woman, no fear of that. She cares,—with all her heart. But there are faults and difficulties on both sides; and I'm afraid they have still a lot of rough ground to get over before they settle into their stride."
And Quita, the perverse, Quita, the inconsistent, cried herself to sleep that night upon her husband's shoulder.