“I am glad you said that,” she said softly. “I want to be real good friends with you, Gilbert--I want to be a real good friend to you. I have made rather a hash of your life, I’m afraid.” She had risen from the table and stood looking down at him. He shook his head. “I do not think you have,” he said, “not the hash that you imagine. Other circumstances have conspired to disfigure what was a pleasant outlook. It is unfortunate that our marriage has not proved to be all that I dreamt it would be, but then dreams are very unstable foundations to the fabric of life. You would not think that I was a dreamer, would you?” he said quickly with that ready smile of his, those eyes that creased into little lines at the corners. “You would not imagine me as a romancist, though I am afraid I was.” “You are, you mean,” she corrected. He made no reply to that. The question of the dinner came up later, when he was preparing to go out. “You would not like to stay and talk it over, I suppose,” she suggested a little timidly. He hesitated. “There is nothing I should like better,” he said, “but”--he looked at his watch. She pressed her lips together, and for one moment felt a wave of unreasoning anger sweeping over her. It was absurd, of course, he always went out at this time, and there was really no reason why he should stay in. “We can discuss it another time,” she said coldly, and left him without a further word. He waited until he heard the door close in her room above, and then he went out with a little smile in which there were tears almost, but in which there was no merriment. He left the house at a propitious moment; had he waited another five minutes he would have met his mother-in-law. Mrs. Cathcart had made up her mind to “own up” and had come in person to make the confession. It was a merciful providence, so she told herself, that had taken Gilbert out of the way; that he had gone out she discovered before she had been in the house four minutes, and she discovered it by the very simple process of demanding from Gilbert’s servant whether his master was at home. Edith heard of her mother’s arrival without surprise. She supposed that Mrs. Cathcart had come to hand the necklace to its lawful owner. She felt some pricking of conscience as she came down the stairs to meet her mother; had she not been unnecessarily brusque in her demand! She was a tender soul, and had a proper and natural affection for the elder woman. The fear that she might have hurt her feelings, and that that hurt might be expressed at the interview gave her a little qualm as she opened the drawing-room door. Mrs. Cathcart was coolness itself. You might have thought that never a scene had occurred between these two women which could be remembered with unkindliness. No reference was made to the past, and Edith was glad.