It was out of these long blue summer days, which for her held nothing but chaotic memories, rebellious and hopeless thought, that self-condemnation and a resolve grew slowly in Cecily’s mind. She had been wrong, wrong so to sink her individuality. It had been one of those mistakes for which one suffers more than for one’s sins. She had been lacking in self-respect. It was time she found herself again--a miserable, shattered, helpless self, it was true, but a self for all that. From the outset she had dismissed the idea of telling her husband of Rose’s unconscious revelation. With a sick prevision she had imagined the whole scene, heard his “reasons” for not having told her of a “perfectly harmless friendship.”... Women were so deplorably jealous; they could not take large views; they refused to believe in ennobling companionships; they deliberately stunted their spiritual growth by attributing base motives.... There was no need to sketch out further the inevitable line of defence. She knew Robert’s powers of rhetoric, she knew now whence came the influence which had lately directed its nature, and with a weary sigh she recognized the futility of provoking a discussion. It would be enough to take the step she intended, without assigning any specific reason. “Diana is coming to-morrow,” she reflected. “It must be settled between us before she comes.” * * * * * She was in the garden that evening in her usual seat, when she saw her husband coming towards her across the grass. Her hands grew suddenly cold, and a nervous trembling seized her. More than anything she dreaded the possibility of a scene with Robert; exhortations, counsels of perfection, all the dialectical machinery he would bring to bear to prove the unreasonableness of her attitude--to put her in the wrong. “And the mere fact that it’s come to be a matter of reason means that, from my point of view, there’s nothing further to be said.” So she mentally opposed the forthcoming argument while she watched his approach. He came slowly, his hands in his pockets, his eyes absent-mindedly fixed upon the grass. A half smile was on his lips. Bitterness rose and swelled like a flood in his wife’s heart. Her trembling ceased. How transparent he was! He was like a child. For a moment contempt, a woman’s contempt for unsuccessful concealment, was her predominant emotion. “How much better I could do it!” was her mocking comment. He sank into a basket-chair near the tea-table, and absently took the cup she offered him. “Have you had a tiring day?” Cecily asked, picking up some needlework. For a moment he did not reply. Evidently the sense of her question had not yet reached his preoccupied brain. “Tiring?” he repeated at last, with a start. “Oh, yes. But I’ve nearly come to the end of it, thank goodness. I sha’n’t go up after to-morrow.” “I’ve taken Mrs. Taylor’s rooms for Philippa Burton,” pursued Cecily after a moment, working steadily.