Sheila rose with a sigh only in part suppressed. ‘I have not seen Mr Bethany again. I think, however, it would be better to let Harry know; I mean, dear, of your derangement. After all, he is one of the family—at least, of mine. He will not interfere. He would, perhaps quite naturally, be hurt if we did not take him into our confidence. Otherwise there is no pressing cause for haste, at least for another week or so. After that, I suppose, something will have to be done. Then there’s Mr Wedderburn; wouldn’t it be as well to let him know that at least for the present you are quite unable to think of returning to town? That, too, in time will have to be arranged, I suppose, if nothing happens meanwhile; I mean if things don’t come right. And I do hope, Arthur, you will not set your mind too closely on what may only prove false hopes. This is all intensely painful to me; of course, to us both.’ Again Lawford, even though he did not turn to confront it, became conscious of the black veil turned towards him tentatively, speculatively, impenetrably. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll write to Wedderburn; he’s had his ups and downs too.’ ‘I always rather fancied so,’ said Sheila reflectively, ‘he looks rather a—a restless man. Oh, and then again,’ she broke off quickly, ‘there’s the question of money. I suppose—it is only a conjecture—I suppose it would be better to do nothing in that direction just for the present. Ada has now gone to the Bank. Fifty pounds, Arthur; it is out of my own private account—do you think that will be enough, just, of course, for your _present_ needs?’ ‘As a bribe, hush-money, or a thank-offering, Sheila?’ murmured her husband wearily. ‘I don’t follow you,’ replied the discreet voice from beneath the veil. He did actually turn this time and glance steadily over his shoulder. ‘How long are you going for? and where?’ ‘I proposed to go to my cousin’s, Bettie Lovat’s; that is, of course, if you have no objection. It’s near; it will be a long-deferred visit; and she need know very little. And, of course, if for the least thing in the world you should want me, there I am within call, as it were. And you will write? We _are_ acting for the best, Arthur?’ ‘So long as it is your best, Sheila.’ Sheila pondered. ‘You think, you mean, they’ll all say I ought to have stayed. Candidly, I can’t see it in that light. Surely every experience of life proves that in intimate domestic matters, and especially in those between husband and wife, only the parties concerned have any means of judging what is best for them? It has been our experience at any rate: though I must in fairness confess that, outwardly at least, I haven’t had much of that kind of thing to complain of.’ Sheila paused again for a reply. ‘What kind of thing?’ ‘Domestic experience, dear.’