"Pa-a-pa."
"At last. A sop to Cerberus," Lydia murmured.
The door opened and the master of the house entered. He had just come back from an afternoon ride, and in the few minutes which had elapsed since his return Lydia knew that he had been to the sideboard in the dining-room—a man's way of alleviating despondency. His glance, avoiding or ignoring his wife, sought eagerly the object which he expected to find—his infant daughter. This was the bright spot in his day. The baby acknowledged his advent by a crow and by shaking a solid silver rattle. Maxwell, walking across to the other side of the room, sat down and held out his arms invitingly. But Lydia intervened to defer the customary toddling journey in order to exhibit her pupil's latest accomplishment.
"Listen to her now, Herbert," she said, and gave the necessary signal.
"Pa-a-pa." The verisimilitude was undeniable.
Something very like a groan escaped Maxwell, though his countenance lighted up. Was he thinking how happy he might have been had fate so willed?
The performance was repeated successfully a second time; then the child was despatched on her travels across the carpet. When she ran staggering into her father's arms he folded her to his breast and pressed his lips against the fair, silky tresses. She was accustomed to be thus cuddled by him, though to-night there was an added fervor in his endearments, owing to her efforts at speech. Meanwhile Lydia from her angle of the sofa observed them in demure silence. She had given him an entrancing quarter of an hour, for which she was thankful. Besides, it might put off the evil day—the day of rupture, decision, breaking up of the present anomalous domestic relations—which was impending. He had been devoted, forbearing, unselfish, he had lavished on her every luxury, but he was impassible. He did not divert or interest her; his serious side lacked originality; his gayer moods were noisy and deficient in subtlety; the reddish inelegance of his physique repelled her. But what was to be the end? This was the riddle which for diverse reasons she had yet failed to solve. Its solution must depend on the future words of both of them, and she had had no final explanation with either. For the present she would fain have things remain as they were, until she could find the key.
The return of the nurse interrupted Maxwell's happiness. Grudgingly he gave up his treasure. As soon as the child had been carried off, he rose, and standing with his back to the blaze of the wood-fire, which the first sharpness of autumn made agreeable, he faced his wife.
"I met Spencer coming from here."