And suddenly he saw her with the glamour on her that used to madden him in the days of his courtship, the glamour of something that is delicate, and shadowy, and far-away--the glamour that lets loose the lust of the body of a man for the soul of a woman. "Marigold," he said in a low voice. Her lips curled in a little contemptuous smile: "Well, Nat, have you been out baying the moon, and chasing your own shadow?" "Marigold!" and he came and leaned over the back of her chair. She started violently. Then she cried in a voice, half petulant, half apologetic, "I'm sorry! But, you know, I can't bear having the back of my neck touched! Oh, Nat, what a sentimental old thing you are!" And then it all began over again--the vain repinings, the veiled reproaches; while the desire to make him wince struggled for the ascendancy with the habit of mercy, engendered by years of a mild, slightly contemptuous tenderness. Her attitude to the calamity was one of physical disgust, mingled with petulance, a sense of ill-usage, and, incredible though it may seem, a sense of its ridiculous aspect. Occasionally she would stop shuddering, to make some such remark as: "Oh, dear! I can't help wishing that old Primrose herself had gone off with them, and that I could have seen her prancing to the fiddle and screeching like an old love-sick tabby cat." Finally Master Nathaniel could stand it no longer. He sprang to his feet, exclaiming violently: "Marigold, you madden me! You're ... you're not a woman. I believe what you need is some of that fruit yourself. I've a good mind to get some, and force it down your throat!" But it was an outrageous thing to have said. And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he would have given a hundred pounds to have them unsaid. What had taken his tongue! It was as if an old trusty watch-dog had suddenly gone mad and bitten him. But he could stay no longer in the parlour, and face her cold, disgusted stare. So, sheepishly mumbling an apology, he left the room. Where should he go? Not to the pipe-room. He could not face the prospect of his own company. So he went upstairs and knocked at Hempie's door. However much in childhood a man may have loved his nurse, it is seldom that, after he has grown up, he does not feel ill at ease and rather bored when he is with her. A relationship that has become artificial, and connected, on one side, with a sense of duty rather than with spontaneous affection, is always an uncomfortable one. And, for the nurse, it is particularly bitter when it is the magnanimous enemy--the wife--who has to keep her "boy" up to his duty. For years Dame Marigold had had to say at intervals, "Nat, have you been up to see Hempie lately?" or "Nat, Hempie has lost one of her brothers. Do go and tell her you're sorry."