So she had been writing a book! It seemed strange to think of it. He remembered how, in the early years of their marriage, he had sometimes found her “scribbling.” He remembered how he had at first laughed and teased her, and afterwards, when she had shown symptoms of “taking it seriously,” how he had shown his disapproval. He thought of this now, and it seemed to him rather a contemptible attitude to have adopted. He felt vaguely ashamed. But he had been jealous, really jealous; he recalled the sensation now with a curious stirring of a forgotten emotion with regard to his wife--jealous that she should be absorbed in anything that did not concern him. How long ago it all seemed! And now she had written a novel, and he did not even know who was her publisher. He supposed she had placed it the more easily because of his name, which was also hers. There was comfort in that reflection. He was glad to have been of use to her. He hoped she would get some encouragement; he hoped---- And then he shook himself impatiently, conscious that he was not really thinking any of these things. All that was vividly present in his mind was a touch of resentment, a curious sense of bitterness that he knew so little about her; that he did not even know the men who went to the house. Except Mayne. He frowned involuntarily. Mayne was there a good deal. Well, he himself had often impressively invited him. With some haste he dismissed this reflection. At the moment it was one he did not feel disposed to investigate. It was unfortunate that he could not feel cordial towards Mayne. But after all, one’s likes and dislikes were not within one’s control, and Mayne was Cecily’s friend, and so---- He banished the subject with an impatient shrug. On emerging from the station at South Kensington, he heard his name uttered somewhat piercingly, and in response to a peremptory order, a motor-car drew up smoothly beside the curb. “How are you, Robin?” Lady Wilmot exclaimed, extending a hand. “And why are you in this direction on your wife’s at-home day? I’m on my way to her. How is she? As pretty as ever? I met her at the Duquesne’s last week, and thought her looking charming. The country and your exclusive society, my dear, evidently disagreed with her.” “You are always kind,” returned Robert. “And what is this I hear about a book of hers?” she pursued. “It’s coming out on Monday,” said Robert, thankful to be able to supply the information. “You’ll have a rival near home!” chuckled his companion. “That last book of yours isn’t doing much, is it? Knights and castles and things are off for the moment, I think. Why don’t you write a society novel? They always take, if you make the women spiteful enough; but I admit the difficulty of that. Well, I must be off. Your wife’s a good hostess. I never miss her parties. Good-bye, my dear. When will you come and dine?” The last question was put in a shrill voice over her shoulder, as the car glided off.