"I think he enjoys everything. He's always so cheery." "And to-night we're dining at home?" "Oh yes, I hope so. We'll have a quiet evening." After a moment Percy said, in a slightly constrained way: "I think I shall have to go out for half-an-hour. I want to see a man at the club." "Oh, must you? But it's raining so much. Why don't you ring him up and ask him to come here?" She was anxious not to betray a womanish fear that he might be getting influenza, as she knew that nothing would annoy him so much as bothering about him. "No; I must go out." She dropped the subject. He took up a new book she had been reading and talked about it somewhat pompously and at great length. The whole time it struck her he was not like himself. Something was wrong. He was either worried, or going to be ill. He had either a temper or a temperature. But she did not refer to it. Dinner was sometimes a good cure for such indispositions. He continued to make conversation in a slightly formal way until he went out. After he had gone she observed to herself that his manner had varied from polite absent-mindedness to slight irritability. He had gone out without telling her anything about his plans. He had not even kissed her. CHAPTER IX AN ANONYMOUS LETTER Mrs. Hillier habitually had breakfast in her own room, for no particular reason, but because Nigel encouraged her in this luxurious manner of beginning the day. He said a woman ought not to have to come down until the day had been a little warmed, and got ready for her; that she should have time to choose her clothes to harmonise with her moods--time, after a look at the weather, and hearing the news of the day, to settle on what the moods should be. For a man, on the contrary, he thought it ridiculous and weakly idle--indolent in a way not suited to a man. A man, according to Nigel, ought no more to have his breakfast in bed than to come down with a bow of blue ribbon in his hair, or to go and lie down before dressing for a dinner-party. However, one morning it darted suddenly into Mary's head that Nigel, on going downstairs to breakfast, while she did not, had nearly an hour to himself. What a horrible idea! What injustice to her! And it occurred to her that for years she had never seen Nigel open his letters. She had, indeed, not the slightest idea what his manner at breakfast was like. Was this fair? He always managed to get out of any invitation to the country which included them both. As soon as she had thought of this, she rang for her maid, and dressed in the wildest hurry, as though she had to catch a train: leaving her tray on the little table untouched, the maid running after her to fasten hooks, and buttons, to stick in pins, and tie ribbons, as though they were playing a game. Mary won. She was flying out of the room when the maid ran after her, saying: "Madame, your tortoiseshell comb is falling out of your hair; won't you let me finish dressing it?"