'Then you're not cross, Edith--not depressed?' She gave her sweetest smile. She looked brilliantly happy and particularly pretty. 'Edith!' With a violent reaction of remorse, and a sort of tenderness, he tried to put his arm round her. She moved away. 'Don't you forgive me, Edith, for anything I've done that you don't like?' 'Yes, I _entirely_ forgive you. The incident is closed.' 'Really forgive me?' 'Absolutely. And I've had a tiring day and I'm going to sleep. Good night.' With a kind little nod she left him standing in the middle of the room with that air of stupid distinction that he generally assumed when in a lift with other people, and that came to his rescue at awkward moments--a dull, aloof, rather haughty expression. But it was no use to him now. He had considerable difficulty in refraining from venting his temper on the poor, dumb furniture; in fact, he did give a kick to a pretty little writing-table. It made no sound, but its curved shoulder looked resentful. 'What a day!' said Bruce to himself. He went to his room, pouting like Archie. But he knew he had got off cheaply. CHAPTER XXII Another Side of Bruce Ever since his earliest youth, Bruce had always had, at intervals, some vague, vain, half-hearted entanglement with a woman. The slightest interest, practically even common civility, shown him by anyone of the feminine sex between the ages of sixteen and sixty, flattered his vanity to such an extraordinary extent that he immediately thought these ladies were in love with him, and it didn't take much more for him to be in love with them. And yet he didn't really care for women. With regard to them his point of view was entirely that of vanity, and in fact he only liked both men or women who made up to him, or who gave him the impression that they did. Edith was really the only woman for whom his weak and flickering passion had lingered at all long; and in addition to that (the first glamour of which had faded) she had a real hold over him. He felt for her the most genuine fondness of which he was capable, besides trust and a certain admiration. A sort of respect underlay all his patronising good-nature or caprices with her. But still he had got into the habit of some feeble flirtation, a little affair, and at first he missed it very much. He didn't care a straw for Miss Townsend; he never had. He thought her plain and tedious; she bored him more than any woman he had ever met, and yet he had slipped into a silly sort of intrigue, beginning by a few words of pity or sympathy to her, and by the idea that she looked up to him in admiration. He was very much ashamed of it and of the circumstances; he was not proud of his conquest with her, as he generally was. He felt that on account of the children, and altogether, he had been playing it a bit low down.