“Oh, yes, one of the husbands who comes to be ennobled.” “Isn’t his wife suited to the task?” “Apparently not. He is a great genius, warped, stifled, suffocated by the atmosphere of domesticity.” “Poor man,” said Cecily. “The wife’s crime, as far as I can understand,” pursued Mrs. Summers, “is her existence, and from Philippa’s point of view I admit it’s enough. No doubt when a man’s tired of his wife it _is_ awfully annoying and stultifying to his genius. But somehow, while Philippa talked, I felt rather sorry for the poor little woman whose mind is so ill-balanced that she can’t turn off her emotions to order.” “Is the man in love with Philippa, do you think?” “Well, as he generally spends several hours a day with her, I should say he was--speaking of the human man as I know him.” “And Philippa?” asked Cecily. “Philippa, my dear, has sandals and an exalted mind. I also suspect her of a certain amount of concealed _jaeger_,--and she thinks him very noble. He always speaks ‘quite nicely’ of his wife.” Mrs. Summers paused, the ironical smile deepening upon her lips. “Under these circumstances,” she continued, “the _dénouement_ may be a little delayed.” “Ah well!” observed Cecily, rising. “It’s a very common little story, no doubt.” There was an underlying ring of bitterness in her words which did not escape her friend’s notice, as she too got up from the bench. “You’d like to come to your room, Rose? Dinner’s at half-past seven.” “Oh, common enough, of course,” returned Rose, in answer to her first remark. “There’s nothing particularly remarkable about Mr. Fergus Macdonald, I should imagine----” She was stooping to pick up her handkerchief as she spoke, when a half-articulate exclamation made her sharply raise her head. Cecily was standing looking at her. “Mr.----? I didn’t catch the name,” she said, in an odd voice. “Fergus Macdonald,” repeated Rose. “She didn’t tell me his name, but I couldn’t help seeing a very soulful inscription in a book. Why, Cecily, do you know him?” She stammered over the last words, for while she spoke, every drop of color had ebbed away from the other woman’s face. “Cecily!” she urged. Cecily sank into the seat she had just left. There was silence for a moment, and then she began to laugh. “Cecily!” said Mrs. Summers again. “Don’t, Cecily! Do you know him?” “A little,” she replied. “He’s my husband.” There was quite a long silence. Rose noticed the long shadows on the grass, was conscious of the brilliance of a bed of flowers in the sunset light. “_Robert!_” she whispered at last. “But how----” “It’s his writing name,” said Cecily, wearily. She had left off laughing now. “Oh, of course, you didn’t know, dear. As you say, you have been out of things----” Her voice trailed off without finishing the sentence. Mrs. Summers mentally reviewed the preceding conversation. “O Cis,” she murmured, “I could kill myself for it. What a fool I am!--what a _fool_!” CHAPTER III