She moved it aside and found an alcove where an easel stood, and on this a picture hidden by a drapery of primrose and chestnut silk. “The way that drapery falls is quite different from anything else,” said Gwen stepping back a pace or two, “why won’t my tea-gowns go like that!” Something suggested to her just then to pry no further, but she swept the suggestion aside with the draperies, and saw before her her own painted image. For one minute she felt inclined to rip the canvas from end to end, and to kill once and for all the vague look of motherhood in the woman’s eyes. “This wretch!” she muttered at last, “so she’s in the house! As if I hadn’t enough to handicap me without her.” She turned away with a look of loathing and jealous hatred, and sat down. After a little she got up slowly and turned to leave the room, then almost in spite of herself she went back to the picture and began again her angry eager inspection of it. As she stood with her head thrown back and her hands clenched involuntarily, her husband came in. He did not see her for a minute; when he did, he stopped, and watched her. It was a revelation and a shock to see her in this abandonment of jealous anger. He rustled a book on the table to arouse her and quoted, laughing: “Where the apple reddens, never pry! Lest we lose our Eden—Eve and I.”— She moved quickly aside into the shade. “When did this come?” she asked, in a low constrained voice. “Brydon sent it a few days ago. You are better?” “I am quite well, thank you.” “The doctor thinks directly you can travel we had better go into the country.” She flung a swift furtive look at him. “How much does he know, I wonder?” “Won’t you sit down?” he asked, putting a soft low chair within her reach, “and may I smoke?” She bent her head without speaking, and he saw that her hands were moving restlessly. He lit his cigar in a leisurely fashion, then he drew up a chair and sat down near her and began to smoke. After a time he set to wonder how long this remarkable vigil was going to hold out. He was determined to keep silence till his wife spoke; he saw she was fighting in her dumb concentrated way for expression; he felt certain some sort of an avalanche was about to descend upon him, and he preferred she should set it sliding herself. Perhaps the girl had had too much lonely struggle and her brain as well as her body had weakened with it, at any rate the first thought she felt herself producing audibly was, “I wish almost you were a fool, Humphrey!” He took his cigar out of his mouth. “Indeed, why?” “Because then,” she said, rather desperately, “I shouldn’t feel so altogether like one myself!” She stood suddenly up and looked down at him.