‘Letters first, thank you, dear,’ said Gundred, seating herself concisely on a small, stiff-backed settle. She always preferred hard and rigid furniture to the cushions and softnesses that nowadays prevail. She felt them more virtuous, more decent, more suitable. She turned towards her husband. ‘Take the arm-chair, dear,’ she said. There was but one in the room that had any pretensions to comfort. Kingston, finding that Gundred was determined to remain where she was, settled himself in it with his papers. ‘Kingston, dear,’ pleaded his wife suddenly, ‘you won’t leave the papers all anyhow on the floor, will you? It’s so untidy--yes?’ For answer he softly whistled a snatch, then, growing absorbed in the news, began abstractedly to drum a small rhythm on the oaken floor. Gundred bore it for a moment. Then a combined instinct of martyrdom and love rebellious stirred her to action. She rose and picked up a small cushion that happened to be on the settle, a bony little unyielding square, prickly and stiff with embroideries that tradition attributed to Queen Elizabeth. ‘A cushion, darling,’ said Gundred in level tones, standing behind his chair. ‘Move your back--sit up a little, and let me arrange it for you.’ Her utterance, her action, were characteristic of her nature. The utterance decorous, cold, impassive, the action springing from an unresting love. Neither from her words nor from their inflection could Kingston have guessed the warmth of the affection that beamed out of her eyes as she stood looking down at the back of his neck with an ardour which she would have been utterly ashamed to show to his face. Only by such attentions as these, valuable as symptoms of her concealed devotion, could Kingston ever make a guess at her feelings. ‘Thank you, dearest,’ he replied gratefully, shifting himself so as to admit the insertion of Queen Elizabeth’s uncomfortable comfort. It harassed him, its adamantine corners cut into his ribs and the small of his back, but as an emblem of his wife’s tenderness he endured and welcomed it. What she zealously concealed from him in word she was perpetually anxious to reveal vicariously by such actions as these. ‘Thanks awfully,’ he repeated, then twisted round, so as to get a glimpse of Gundred’s face. Instantly the light faded out of her eyes, and all she allowed him to see was a decent wifely expression of solicitude. He never divined that any other had been there. But suddenly she permitted herself a word of self-betrayal. ‘I always want you to be comfortable, dear,’ she said. The words were cool and coolly spoken, but under them lay the warmth of Gundred’s secret nature. Kingston, fired by such an advance, rose and swung round. He caught his wife’s two hands--those charming hands that were never hot or cold. ‘I owe you something for that,’ he said, and kissed her twice.