In ten days from the date of their arrival at Munich, the crisis came. Ernest returned later than usual from the picture-gallery, and—for the first time in his wife’s experience—shut himself up in his own room.
He appeared at the dinner-hour with a futile excuse. Mrs. Lismore waited until the servant had withdrawn. “Now, Ernest,” she said, “it’s time to tell me the truth.”
Her manner, when she said those few words, took him by surprise. She was unquestionably confused; and, instead of looking at him, she trifled with the fruit on her plate. Embarrassed on his side, he could only answer:
“I have nothing to tell.”
“Were there many visitors at the gallery?” she asked.
“About the same as usual.”
“Any that you particularly noticed?” she went on. “I mean, among the ladies.”
He laughed uneasily. “You forget how interested I am in the pictures,” he said.
There was a pause. She looked up at him—and suddenly looked away again. But he saw it plainly: there were tears in her eyes.
“Do you mind turning down the gas?” she said. “My eyes have been weak all day.”