"Well," said Waymark, without meeting her look, "even if you do, it will be gain to you to cultivate your mind?" "Do you wish me to cultivate my mind?" "You know I do." Waymark seemed uneasy. He rose and leaned against the mantelpiece. "I will do whatever you bid me," Ida said. "I can get an hour or so each night, and I have all Sunday." Waymark felt only too well the effect of the tone he was adopting. The situation was by this time clear enough to him, and his own difficulties no less clear. He avoided looking at Ida as much as he could. A change had again come over her manner; the girlishness was modified, the old sadder tone was audible at moments. "If it's fine on Sunday," he said, "will you go with me to Richmond, and let us have dinner at the old place?" "No," was Ida's reply, with a smile, "I can't afford it." "But I invite you. Of course I didn't mean that it should be any expense." She still shook her head. "No, I must take my own share, wherever we go." "Then I shall certainly refuse your cup of tea next time I come," said Waymark jestingly. "That's quite different," said Ida. "But if you like, we can go in the afternoon, and walk about Roehampton; that I can afford." "As you please. When shall I call for you?" "Half-past one." She opened the door for him, and held out her hand. Their eyes did not meet as they said good-bye. The door closed, and Waymark went so slowly down the stone steps that he seemed at every moment on the point of stopping and turning back. CHAPTER XX A SUGGESTION Waymark and Julian Casti were sitting together in the former's room. It was Saturday evening--two days after Waymark's visit to Ida. Julian had fallen into a sad reverie. "How is your wife?" asked his friend, after watching the melancholy face for a while. "She said her headache was worse to-night." "Curiously," observed Waymark, with a little acidity, "it always is when you have to leave home." Julian looked up, and seemed to reach a crisis in his thoughts. "Waymark," he began, reddening as he still always did when greatly moved, "I fear I have been behaving very foolishly. Many a time I have wished to speak out to you plainly, but a sort of delicacy--a wrong kind of delicacy, I think--prevented me. I can't keep this attitude any longer. I must tell you how things are going on, and you must give me what help you can. And perhaps I shall be telling you what you already know?" "I have suspected."