One of the greatest mercies is the survival of the hoping habit. In imagination it still seemed possible Wynne would turn to her with the light of pride and possession, and call her to his side because he needed her there. So once more she harnessed her soul to wait, though the collar galled as never before. IV One night Wynne said: “I shall tackle Quiltan tomorrow about backing my play. I would have spoken at the club tonight, but some one always interrupts. Think you could provide a decent meal if I asked him to lunch here?” Eve’s spirits leapt. “Of course I could,” she said. At last, and for the first time, he was bringing his interests home. Unimportant though his words may have seemed they were full of the most glorious possibilities. It meant so much more than asking a man to lunch. It meant that, at a critical point, he and she would be side by side to discuss a great step in his future—in their future. Besides, it would be so splendid to meet Quiltan—to know and be known by a friend of Wynne’s. She suddenly realized in the three years of their married life there had been no friends—nothing but work and their partnership to relieve the grey monotony of existence. At the mere suggestion of Quiltan’s coming she was bubbling over with excitement. “What’s the matter?” asked Wynne. “I don’t know—only I’m awfully, awfully glad. It’s—I haven’t met many people lately—and your asking him—here, I— What would you like for lunch?” “Heaven knows! Any notepaper? I’ll drop him a line.” That night Eve lay awake and her thoughts were good to own. They began nowhere and travelled everywhere—out into the unknown and beyond. And because of a sudden intense happiness she forgot all manner of doubts which of late had oppressed and haunted her. She rose early and took a pretty dress from a drawer—a dress which, because he seemed not to care about these things, she foolishly had never worn before him. When she returned from the shops she was laden with parcels, and light of heart. Wynne was standing in the sitting-room with an expression of some displeasure upon his face. The spring sunshine coming through the windows emphasized the shabbiness of the furniture and appointments. A golden shaft caught Eve’s face as she entered, and made her radiant. But Wynne did not look toward her. His eyes rested on the tufts of horsehair projecting from the upholstery of the old armchair—the sunken springs, and the threadbare dilapidation of the carpet. “I’ve bought a sole,” said Eve, “and some cutlets and peas, and I’ll make an omelette with apricot jam—” “Yes—all right,” said Wynne. “But I must hurry, for there’s a fearsome lot to do.” Away she went to the kitchen, where she donned an apron, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work. Never since the early days of her marriage had she set about her duties so happily. “God’s going to be good to me soon,” she said to the frying-pan. “I know He is—I know He is.”