She would be contemptible to condone so soon, she told herself. He would never know how he had made her suffer--never suspect how in minutes the unutterable recollection that she had hidden for his sake had wrenched and tortured her while she talked to him so easily; she prayed that he never _might_ know! But to yield at his first sigh, because he looked unhappy--how could she contemplate it? Yet was his unhappiness her sole temptation? She trembled. Was she despicable to long for his arm about her again? Was it degraded to feel that even to-day---- In July Kent was lonelier than he had been hitherto. His wife could seldom contrive to accompany him when he went out, and the excursions were in any case curtailed. She seemed to care less for walking, and there were little tiresome things that demanded her attention, or to which, at least, she chose to give it. The child missed her, when he woke at eight o'clock, if she was not at home to run in to him; she wanted to practise on the wheezy piano; there was needle-work she was compelled to do--always something! The first time, Kent was merely disappointed, and came back early in low spirits; but after the third of his solitary walks, misgivings oppressed him with double weight. She was indifferent--no other explanation was possible; she was indifferent, and no longer chose to mask it! "You're always busy," he told her at last. "I miss you dreadfully, Cynthia. Is it so important that what you are doing should be gone on with to-night?" "I should like to finish it to-night," she said constrainedly--"yes. I'm sorry you miss me, but the girl is clumsy with her needle; one can't expect perfection." "Yesterday something else prevented you. You have only been out with me once this week." "Surely more than that?" she said calmly; "twice, I think?" "Once. You went with me on Tuesday. There's all day for the boy, Cynthia; you might spare me the evening." She bent lower over the pinafore, engrossed by it. "It isn't only the boy, poor little chap! What a tyrant you'd make him out! Yesterday I didn't feel like going; I was up to my eyes in a book." Kent regarded her hungrily. "I've very little claim on you, I know; but when I first came----" "'Sh!" she said.... "What a mountain out of a molehill! If I haven't been with you since Tuesday, we must have our walk together toil morrow." Kent found this very unsatisfactory. It was a concession, and he did not seek her society as a concession. The walk, as usual latterly, was short, and neither had the air of enjoying it very much. They roamed along the dusty roads for the most part in silence, and for the rest with platitudes. He could not avoid seeing that her companionship was reluctantly accorded, and after their return, when she put out her hand in the stereotyped "Good-night," he resolved not to beg her to go with him any more.