“I’m so glad Mr. Laurence could be of service to you,” before she made her exit with him. Yet there were those who felt that they were not deceived and the eyes of Mr. Stone and Mr. Spicer met as the door closed behind the husband and wife—and it was a glance that confided a sinister and mutual thankfulness of escape. The two in question walked swiftly away in silence on the starlit, drift-bordered path; the wind had gone down but it was infinitely cold. They went, part of the time, in single file, but she ignored his tentative pressure on her arm; there seemed to be an icy chasm between them. The distance to the house was short, and it was not until they were inside it that she broke forth hotly, as if they had been talking together all the way, her crimson cheeks and blazing eyes facing his tall, reluctant figure as she threw off her wraps. “It wasn’t as if I could _ever_ say anything to those people to explain! Oh, it’s so perfectly horrid, so _maddening_, so utterly ridiculous on the face of it!—They’ll think I’m jealous of her—they’ll be sorry for me. _Sorry!_ As if I could possibly be jealous of _her_. They’ll think you keep everything from me, and that they know more about you than I do. How could you have put me in such a position when just a word——” She made a little sound that was half a moan. “Why you didn’t have the decency to tell me before we went there I _can’t_ see.” Her voice rose higher. “Yes I can—you were afraid; afraid of your wife! It does seem pretty bad to have you remember to do things for other people, when you can’t remember them for me, but that isn’t the point I mind most, it’s not the real thing—what I _can’t_ stand is you not having the courage to own up, to tell me the truth. Why don’t you say something?” “Because you’re saying it all.” “O Will!” She gazed at him hopelessly as he stood in front of her, her hand laid detainingly on his arm. He looked very high-bred, very much a gentleman, with that air of aloof _hauteur_; there were circles under his dark eyes, and his lips had a compression that she well knew. If there was anything that Mr. Laurence hated temperamentally it was a shrewish woman; the ice of the winter’s night couldn’t freeze harder than he when she stormed, even though he allowed that she had righteous reason for her wrath. He spoke now, in answer to her appeal, with stiff, prideful humility: “You know very well that I’m extremely sorry about the whole matter. As for ordering that coal for Mrs. Lalor, I meant to have told you about it when we got back, you know I never can keep anything from you; I don’t _want_ to. I forgot it when I first came home—and then you took me by surprise, someway. And now don’t you think we’ve perhaps had enough of this? _I’m_ tired.”