She obeyed him as if she were in a dream, wishing with vague pain that he would touch her, even if it were only once. After a few minutes she turned from the light to shut out his face. He heard her, and drew down the blind softly; he seemed to her all-hearing as well as all-seeing. “Oh, if only he were a fool!” she cried to herself, “I might endure it.” The room was cool and still, and the lowered blinds flapping lazily in the breeze were like a lullaby. Gwen was worn out body and mind, and as she lay in the coolness, her hurt heart stopped writhing, her poor foolish shame ceased to burn, her fingers relaxed softly and forgot to clench themselves, and at last she fell asleep like a tired child. Her husband went softly to the sofa, she started slightly, and a twist of pain came into her brow. He smiled grimly. “Even in her sleep,” he muttered, “and I am ready to swear that all the time it is only an idea. And now this child—the best shot in my locker, seems about to run an awful mucker in the business. Ah, Gwen, if you only knew what you cast from you in your splendid way!—Ah well, there’s one satisfaction, if you’re not mine, my Gwen, you’re no man’s. Ah, my poor Gwen, my darling, God keep you!” He stooped down over her and for a minute or two let her breath come and go on his cheek, then he stood up and went to his writing-table, and let his face fall heavily into his hands. When he looked up at last at a slight soft rustle of silk, there had gone out of it for ever the look of cool buoyant youth, which was its distinguishing characteristic. When Gwen awoke the blinds were up and it was dusk, and the tea had just been brought in. “Three hours at the very least,” she thought with much discomfort, as she sipped her tea, “and watched by him the whole time!” When she had finished her tea she was rising to leave the room. Her husband stopped her. “Will you please sit down again for a few minutes?” “The dressing bell has gone,” she said unwillingly. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, “we can be late for once. I fancy,” he went on coolly, “that your pride is of a sufficiently rational and well-bred order not to think itself obliged to make any difficulties about money matters.” “I will do as you wish in the matter.” “And if any emergency arises requiring your interference, will you consent to act?” “Yes,” she said simply. “And now,” he said, “comes the question of how this business is to be presented to the world.” She raised her head impatiently. “The world won’t trouble itself with me.”