That day was pouring wet, and he reached home so late that it seemed wrong to disturb Virginia. The next morning Hugh Caunter came for him before seven o'clock. The flooding of the meadow where the tree had fallen had become serious. Gaunt arose and went out, breakfasted with Caunter at his house, and did not get home till nearly noon. He returned by the uphill avenue which approached the house by way of the garden--that avenue down which he had plunged in the moonlight, trying to allay the disorder of his mind after reading Virginia's letter. As he walked somewhat slowly up the road, which grew steeper as it entered the garden, he heard the sound of voices on the breeze. The morning, which had broken cloudy, had developed into a fine, warm day. The heavy rain of yesterday had brought out the scents of the flowers, and the very earth was fragrant. On the terrace, in a lounge chair, lay Virginia, and Joey Ferris was sitting near, relating something in her loud, hearty tones, some story which brought laughter from the listening girl. Gaunt's heart began to thump. He had not seen her since his treachery and subsequent conversion. He left the avenue and struck into a path which would bring him to where they sat. The chair in which his wife was placed had a striped awning to keep her from the sun. She therefore wore no hat. He thought her more like a patron saint--a Virgin martyr--than ever. The background might have been the canopy in some old Florentine painting, with a glimpse of flowery garden seen beyond. He had the mortification of seeing the laughter wiped from her face as she caught sight of him. "There is my husband," said she to Joey; and Mrs. Ferris jumped up, too eager to shower congratulations upon the bridegroom to heed the expression of either face. She ran along the terrace to meet him, intercepted him, shook hands as with the handle of a pump, shouted her chaff upon his change of attitude towards things feminine. He bore it marvellously, managing to approach nearer Virginia's chair while the storm broke over him. As soon as he could get in a word: "You are very good," he said, "and I expect I deserve all you say. Men, after all, are only very moderately intelligent animals, you know. They have to wait until some lady takes enough interest in them to teach them these things. But forgive me a moment--I had to go out before seven this morning, and have not seen my wife. I must just ask her how she is." He drew up a chair close to the couch, and took an unwilling hand in his. Things psychological did not, as a rule, interest him, but now he found himself wondering how it was possible to withdraw all response from a warm, living hand so that it should lie in one's own like something dead. "How are you this morning?" he asked.