But Jennie herself made that kind of love more difficult. On returning to town Bob found her changed. During all the weeks of the _modus vivendi_ she had been gentle, submissive, grateful, accepting his terms in the provisional spirit in which she understood them, and carrying them out. When Teddy’s affairs were settled—and they never defined what they meant by that—she knew they were to have a reckoning; but the reckoning was to be postponed till then. And now, all at once, she seemed disposed to force it on. His visit to his family had frightened her. It frightened her the more in that he said so little about it. He, too, was changed. He was silent, pensive. He watched her more and talked to her less; but when he watched her his eyes, so she said to herself, had a queer kind of sorrow in them. She didn’t wonder at that. Anyone’s eyes would have had sorrow in them—anyone who was seeing Teddy nearly every day and filling him up with fortitude. If it had not been for Teddy’s sake she would have done her best to get Bob "out of it" long ago. Her fear now was of not being able to make this attempt of her own accord. In other words, she shrank from being found out before confessing of her own free will. Twenty words from Mrs. Collingham to her son would rob her, Jennie, of such poor shreds of good intention as she still possessed. The trouble was, first, the lack of opportunity, and then, the waiting for the right emotional moment. It was not a thing you could spring at any chance hour of the day. Something must lead up to it and make it natural. But a week after his return from Sugar Maple Point, the occasion seemed to present itself. It was one of those evenings in late September when indoors was too stifling. In pursuance of his plans for distracting the family, which meant so much to Teddy, Bob had motored the mother and daughters to a small country restaurant, where they had had supper, and had brought them home again. Lizzie and the two girls having said good night, Jennie was about to do the same, but he held her by the hand. "Don’t go in. Let’s walk a bit." "So it’s come," Jennie thought. "I must do it before we get home." Even so she put it off. He, too, put off whatever in himself was burning to find words. They said as little as they could without being altogether silent, and that little was mere commonplace. "Wonderful night, isn’t it?" "Yes; and I think we’re going to have a breeze. It isn’t so hot as an hour ago." "Anyhow, the hot weather must be nearly over. It will be October in a day or two." "But we often have very hot days in October. I remember that last year—"