“By Jove, this is ripping,” he said, as they drove away. “I’m tired of being a grass-widower, I can tell you.” They came to Corstal Hill and he walked the horse. “Just look behind you,” he said, in an undertone. “Notice any thing?” “What?” “Look at Parke’s hat.” Parke was the footman. Bertha, looking again, observed a cockade. “What d’you think of that, eh?” Edward was almost exploding with laughter. “I was elected chairman of the Urban District Council yesterday; that means I’m _ex-officio_ J.P. So, as soon as I heard you were coming, I bolted off and got a cockade.” When they reached Court Leys, he helped Bertha out of the trap quite tenderly. She was taken aback to find the tea ready, flowers in the drawing-room, and everything possible done to make her comfortable. “Are you tired?” asked Edward. “Lie down on the sofa and I’ll give you your tea.” He waited on her and pressed her to eat, and was, in fact, unceasing in his attentions. “By Jove, I am glad to see you here again.” His pleasure was obvious, and Bertha was somewhat touched. “Are you too tired to come for a little walk in the garden? I want to show what I’ve done for you, and just now the place is looking its best.” He put a shawl round her shoulders, so that the evening air might not hurt her, and insisted on giving her his arm. “Now, look here; I’ve planted rose-trees outside the drawing-room window; I thought you’d like to see them when you sat in your favourite place, reading.” He took her farther, to a place which offered a fine prospect of the sea. “I’ve put a bench here, between those two trees, so that you might sit down sometimes, and look at the view.” “It’s very kind of you to be so thoughtful. Shall we sit there now?” “Oh, I think you’d better not. There’s a good deal of dew, and I don’t want you to catch cold.” For dinner Edward had ordered the dishes which he knew Bertha preferred, and he laughed joyously, as she expressed her pleasure. Afterwards when she lay on the sofa, he arranged the cushions so as to make her quite easy. “Ah, my dear,” she thought, “if you’d been half as kind three years ago you might have kept my love.” She wondered whether absence had increased his affection, or whether it was she who had altered. Was he not unchanging as the rocks, and she knew herself unstable as water, mutable as the summer winds. Had he always been kind and considerate; and had she, demanding a passion which it was not in him to feel, been blind to his deep tenderness? Expecting nothing from him now, she was astonished to find he had so much to offer. But she felt sorry if he loved her, for she could give nothing in return but complete indifference; she was even surprised to find herself so utterly callous. At bedtime she bade him good-night, and kissed his cheek. “I’ve had the red room arranged for me,” she said.