"How late you are!" is Pauline's languid greeting. "We waited dinner fifteen minutes."
"I was detained at the office," he answers, throwing himself into a chair which commands a good view of the players, full face, three-quarters, and profile.
"Yes," he thinks after a few minutes' scrutiny, after intercepting a frightened, questioning, furtive glance—"yes, I think I am to be told of Jamie and his unexpected return from sea; she is evidently mustering courage to unburden her conscience. I wonder how long will she be getting up sufficient steam? I must give her a helping hand."
"What is it? You want to speak to me?" he says, as gently as he can, meeting a second imploring look, as they both stand at the foot of the stairs, when the party in the drawing-room has broken up for the night.
But she shrinks back in evident dismay.
"No, no! What—what made you think that? I—I don't want to say anything in particular, only, 'Good-night.'"
"I beg your pardon. Good-night."
Two days go by, and no confession comes; the third brings Robert on a hurried visit from Aldershot to consult his brother-in-law, about some hitch in his qualification for the cavalry.
At dinner Armstrong learns what he wants to know—the identity of his wife's lover.