After dinner Albert played backgammon with Ella, who affected to be very fond of the game. Clara knew well that it was an affectation, for whenever Mr. Delano proposed playing, Ella was very slow to respond. To the old gentleman, this game was almost his only evening amusement, and though Clara disliked it, she often played out of pure kindness to him. Clara was by no means displeased that her husband’s society was agreeable to Ella. It was natural and right; but this special evening she would have been flattered by some devotion of Albert’s time to herself. She was all gentleness and kindness, and feared, above all things, being unjust or seemingly selfish, through her exceeding fondness for her husband. “He will not play long,” she said to herself, and sat down by Miss Charlotte with her sewing. When the game or games were finished, Albert left the house, saying only that he was to meet some board of medical men. Clara’s heart sank. She looked at him, and his eyes met hers with the most ordinary indifferent smile, such as he might bestow upon his father or Charlotte. She went to her rooms earlier than usual, and sat for a long time musing before the fire of their pleasant, private sitting-room. The reflection would come that, since Ella’s return, Albert had cared less and less for that room. Until very lately, he had always sought it immediately after dinner, whether Clara was there or not, knowing well she would not wait long before seeking him there. As she recalled every incident of the past month, little events that had meant nothing at the time, were full of significance, and her heart cried out in anguish with the fear that Albert was changing. When he had left her before dinner, she had suffered a moment of intense pain. He had not seemed to understand her, and for the first time she felt that something had gone out of her life; and now, as she sat waiting for him, she almost dreaded his coming. She did not wish to conceal any little heart-ache from Albert: it was torture to think it necessary. Why could he not soothe it away? Why should it not seem important to him, whatever its cause? Was she indeed too sensitive? Yet he had adored her for that very sensitiveness! She repeated his words “morbidly sensitive,” and out of the fear to do injustice to him, tried to believe that she was suffering some indisposition—that she was nervous, and had exaggerated a very slight misunderstanding. Clearly she _was_ nervous, and ought not to meet Albert until sleep and rest had restored her. “I should not see him in this mood,” she said to herself, as she entered her bedroom. “Oh, if I might have one right the Turkish woman has!—if I might put my slippers outside my door, with the certainty that it would protect me from all intrusion, even from that of my husband!” CHAPTER XXIII. THE INVITATION TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.