Kingston and Gundred grew closer thenceforth. The warmth of their first married days seemed to have returned. Kingston, in the ardour with which he regarded his wife, was secretly indemnifying her for that obstinate folly in his own heart which refused to condemn the new-comer absolutely. He took countervailing pains to emphasize his love and admiration for Gundred. And she, realizing that he loved her more keenly, thanks to the comparison with Isabel, yielded to her own heart’s desire, passed from acquiescence to reciprocation, and was delighted to find how successfully she emerged from the comparison, and shone by the side of ragged, reckless Isabel. If Kingston could not divine, or dared not divine, the deep current of emotion that underlay his actions, how much less could such a subtlety be expected of his wife? She noticed with joy that Isabel was in every way the foil best calculated to show off her own perfections. She rejoiced to find that her husband was as keen-eyed as herself for the edifying contrast, and, though already conceiving a disapproving distrust of Isabel, believed so strongly that her presence would assure the continuation of Kingston’s renewed warmth that she decided to prolong her cousin’s visit to the uttermost. Her motives in making the suggestion were also her husband’s in accepting them. He was glad to find himself so appreciating that nice precision of Gundred’s which he had been beginning to find monotonous; and, when she suggested that Isabel should more or less make a home with them till she married, he let himself believe that her presence would perpetually fire his admiration for Gundred, and fell gladly in with his wife’s benevolent design. ‘Poor darling,’ said Gundred; ‘she wants forming so. It will be quite like training a child. I never saw anyone who was so--so--just _any_how--yes?’ ‘A bit all over the place, certainly. Well, she couldn’t do better than copy you. And you might give her a hat or two. But not that one you wore in the garden this afternoon.’ ‘Did you like it, dear?’ ‘Most awfully. It made one feel so cool and summery.’ ‘How nice of you to notice my hats, dear! No other woman’s husband does that.’ ‘I always notice everything you wear. Every line of you, every bow and ribbon. But I can’t always tell you what I think of you. You won’t often let me. You hold one at arm’s length, and make one think one’s self silly and childish. If you knew how much one loved every detail of you, you wouldn’t make one feel such a violent ass every time one tries to express what one feels.’