She looked inquiringly at me, but I did not care to explain what the “it” was that she had learned to cover. A slight flush appeared in her cheeks, and I knew intuitively that she thought I was alluding to her humble origin. I did not disabuse her mind of this impression. She would have been angry had I explained that I meant her social ambitions which I thought vulgar and she thought refined. Both she and Margot, except in occasional unguarded moments in privacy, had indeed vastly improved in manners. They had learned the trick of the aristocrats they associated with--the trick of affecting simplicity and equality and quietly confident ease. There was a notable difference, and altogether in their favor, between their manners and the manners of the former Mrs. Armitage and other American women. Whatever might justly be said in the way of criticism of my wife, it assuredly could not be said that she was lacking in agility at “catching on.” Armitage once said to me, “Your wife is a marvelous woman. I never saw or heard of her making a break.” This tribute can be appreciated only when you recall whence she sprung--and how much of her origin remained with her--necessarily--through all her climbings and soarings. “You prefer it over here?” said I--we were still driving. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never go back,” said she. “For me?” said I. “Oh, don’t bother about me.” “But I do,” replied she sweetly. And her hand covertly stole into mine for a moment. “Sometimes I get so homesick, Godfrey, that’s it all I can do to fight off the impulse to take the first steamer.” I tried to look as a man should on hearing such pleasant and praiseworthy sentiments from the wife of his bosom. “You’ve acted cold and--and reserved with me,” she went on. “I wanted to come to you last night. But I hadn’t the courage. You are such a mixture of tenderness and--and aloofness. You have the power to make even me feel like a stranger.” “I’m sure I don’t mean to be that way,” said I, thoroughly uncomfortable. “Margot was speaking of it,” proceeded Edna. “She said--poor affectionate child--that she hardly dared put her arms round you and kiss you. You oughtn’t to repulse the child that way, Godfrey. She has a tender, loving heart. And she adores you. She and I talk of you a long time every day. I’d insist on it as a matter of duty--for I’d not let your child forget you. But I don’t need to insist. She refers everything to you, and whenever she’s unusually happy, she always says: ‘If papa could only be enjoying this with us!’” I saw that she had worked herself up into a state of excitement. My good sense told me that there was no genuineness in either her affection or Margot’s. But I had no doubt they both thought themselves genuine. And that was quite enough to give me, the easy-going American slob of a husband and father, an acute attack of guilty conscience. The upshot was----