A Lady and Her Husband By Amber Reeves G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1914 Copyright, 1914 BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII A LADY AND HER HUSBAND CHAPTER I ROSEMARY looked round her mother's drawing-room. It was a charming room, she thought, of its conventional kind, gay and luxurious, anxious to please, like some soft, pretty woman. She had never considered its origin before, but now she felt sure that her father must have planned it. It revealed his mind--large, cheerful, excellent--and showed the thorough competence of his taste. She had chosen this room deliberately for an interview with her mother. She was going to tell her mother that she was in love, and she had found herself shy, afraid of the poor lady's emotion. In the publicity of the spacious room, where anyone might interrupt them, a display of feeling would be difficult. She made sure, once more, of this train of thought. Then she looked anxiously at Mrs. Heyham. Mary was sitting in her usual place by the side of the hearth, and, for the moment, behind the glittering, fire-flushed tea-things, she seemed curiously unreal. She was wearing a chain that her husband had given her, set with pearls and crystals--that caught the light, and so did a brooch that was a present from Trent, her son. Behind these witnesses of masculine esteem there was the vagueness of grey stuff, of lace, of pale brown hair, and a face where the play of lights and shadows blotted out expression. Rosemary, seeking for some promise of immediate, cheerful sympathy, could see nothing but her mother's evident dignity and grace. On the point of speaking, she hesitated. She had not the least idea, after all, how her mother would respond to her. At that moment Mrs. Heyham looked up and met her daughter's eyes. "Yes," she said, "I like your new way of doing your hair, my dear, it suits you, it gives you height. And I like your funny green frock." She smiled a little shyly. She could not tell the child how lovely she found her. But the tenderness in her voice reached Rosemary, making her feel suddenly affectionate and ashamed. "Mother, dear," she cried, "how selfish I am!--Am I very horrid to you?" She had forgotten the ungenerous detachment which she had planned, and as she spoke she crossed the floor to the rug by her mother's knee. She had been fussing all day about her own feelings, she told herself, and she had hardly given a thought to her mother's!