It was Sunday morning. John Drayton sat just inside the tent, presumably enjoying his pipe before the heat of the day. His eyes furtively followed his wife as she moved about near him, sometimes passing close to his chair in search of something she had mislaid. There was colour in her cheeks; her eyes, though preoccupied, were bright; there was a lightness and buoyancy in her step which she set to a little dancing air she was humming under her breath. After a moment or two the song ceased, she began to move slowly, sedately; and as if chilled by a raw breath of air, the light faded from her eyes, which she presently turned towards her husband. "Why do you look at me?" she asked suddenly. "I don't know, my dear," he began, slowly and laboriously as was his wont. "I was thinkin' how nice you looked--jest now--much better you know--but somehow"--he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual, between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to finish--"somehow, you alter so, my dear--you're quite pale again all of a minute." She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more than suspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the words were uttered. His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stood before him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust struggling in a hand-to-hand fight within her. "Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it's cooler there. Won't you come?" she said at last gently. He did not reply for a moment, then he turned his head aside sharply for him. "No, my dear, thank you; I'm comfortable enough here," he returned huskily. She stood over him, hesitating a second, then moved abruptly to the table, from which she took a book. He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he intercepted her timorously. "Kathie, give me a kiss before you go," he whispered hoarsely. "I--I don't often bother you." She drew her breath in deeply as he put his arms clumsily about her, but she stood still, and he kissed her on the forehead, and touched the little wavy curls that strayed across it gently with his big trembling fingers. When he released her she moved at once impetuously to the open doorway. On the threshold she hesitated, paused a moment irresolutely, and then turned back. "Shall I----Does your pipe want filling, John?" she asked softly. "No, thank you, my dear." "Would you like me to stay, read to you, or anything?" He looked up at her wistfully. "N-no, thank you, I'm not much of a reader, you know, my dear--somehow." She hated herself for knowing that there would be a "my dear," probably a "somehow" in his reply, and despised herself for the sense of irritated impatience she felt by anticipation, even before the words were uttered. There was a moment's hesitating silence, broken by the sound of quick firm footsteps without. Broomhurst paused at the entrance, and looked into the tent.