To see his wife casually in a crowd, and to fall desperately in love with

her for the second time, was a unique experience even in Tyson's life.

But it had its danger. He had never been jealous before; now a feeling

very like jealousy had been roused by seeing her with Stanistreet. He had

followed her to the "Criterion"; he had hurried out before the end of the

piece, and hung about Ridgmount Gardens till he had seen her homecoming.

Stanistreet's immediate departure was a relief to a certain anxiety that

he was base enough to feel. And still there remained a vague suspicion

and discomfort. He had to begin all over again with her. In their first

courtship she was a child; in their second she was a woman. Hitherto, the

creature of a day, she had seemed to spring into life afresh every

morning, without a memory of yesterday or a thought of to-morrow; she had

had no past, not even an innocent one. And now he had no notion what

experiences she might not have accumulated during this year in which he

had left her. That was her past; and they had the future before them.

They had been alone together for three days, three days and three nights

of happiness; and on the evening of the fourth day Tyson had found her

reading--yes, actually reading!

He sat down opposite her to watch the curious sight.

Perhaps she had said to herself: "Some day I shall be old, and very

likely I shall be ugly. If I am stupid too, he will be bored, and perhaps

he will leave me. So now--I am going to be his intellectual companion."

He was amused, just as Stanistreet had been. "I say, I can't have that,

you know. What have you got there?"

She held up her book without speaking. "Othello," of all things in the

world!

"Shakespeare? I thought so. When a woman's in a damned bad temper she

always reads Shakespeare, or Locke on the Human Understanding. Come out

of that."

Though Mrs. Nevill Tyson set her little teeth very hard, the corners of

her mouth and eyes curled with mischief. It was delicious to feel that

she could torment Nevill, to know that she had so much power. And while

she pretended to read she played with the pearl necklace she wore. It was

one shade with the white of her beautiful throat.

"Who gave you those pearls?"

She made no answer, but her hand dropped a little consciously. He had

given them to her that afternoon, remarking, with rather questionable

taste, that they were "a wedding-present for the second Mrs. Nevill

Tyson."

He leant over her chair and assailed her with questions to which no

answer came, to which no answer was possible, punctuating his periods

with kisses.




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