It was high summer, and the grate held nothing more comforting than a dingy paper ornament; yet Hobart Gaynor got up and stood with his back to it, as men are wont to do in moments of perplexity. He perceived that there was not much use in pressing for his concrete cases. If they came, they would individually be, or seem, trifles, no doubt. The accumulation of them was the mischief; that was embraced and expressed in the broad sweep of incompatibility; the two human beings could not keep step together. But he put one question. "I suppose you've given him no really serious cause for complaint?" She turned quickly round from the window. "You mean----?" "Well, I mean, anybody else--er--making friction?" "Hobart, you know that's not my way! I haven't a man-friend, except you, and my cousin, Stephen Aikenhead--and I very seldom see either of you. And Stephen's married, and you're engaged. That's a ridiculous idea, Hobart." She was evidently indignant, but Gaynor was not disturbed. "We lawyers have to suspect everybody," he reminded her with a smile, "and to expect anything, however improbable. So I'll ask now if your husband has any great woman-friend." "That's just as ridiculous. I could be wicked enough to wish he had. Let somebody else have a try at it!" "Can't you--somehow--get back to what made you like him at first? Do you understand what I mean?" "Yes, I do--and I've tried." Her eyes looked bewildered, even frightened. "But, Hobart, I can't realize what it was. Unless it was just his looks--he is very handsome, you know." "He stands well at the Bar. He's getting on fast, he's very straight, and I don't think he's unpopular, from what I hear." She caught his hint quickly. "A lot of people will say it's my fault? That I'm unreasonable, and all in the wrong?" "You'd have to reckon with a good deal of that." "I don't care what people say." "Are you sure of that?" he asked quietly. "It's a pretty big claim to make for oneself, either for good or for evil." "It's only his friends, after all. Because I've got none. Well, I've got you." She came and stood by him. "You're against me, though, aren't you?" "I admit I think a wife--or a husband--ought to stand a lot." "It's not as if my baby had lived. I might have gone on trying then. It wouldn't have been just undiluted Cyril." "That makes some difference, I agree. Still, in the general interest of things----" "I must be tortured all my life?" Her challenge of the obligation rang out sharply. With a restless toss of his head, he sat down at his table again. She stood where she was, staring at the dingy ornament in the grate. "Life the other way mayn't turn out particularly easy. You'll have troubles, annoyances--temptations, perhaps." "I can face those. I can trust myself, Hobart. Can he prevent my going if I want to?" "No." "Can he make me come back?"