He would set aside the bitter feeling and resentment of her trifling which had beset him more than once during the evening; he would forget them, as it was but right and just that they should be forgotten. When he spoke, as they went up the staircase together, his tone was so kind that Bertha glanced up at him, and saw that his face had changed, and, though still grave, was kind, too. When she joined him after leaving the cloak-room, he spoke to her of her wrap again, and asked her to draw it more closely about her; when he helped her into the carriage, there was that in his light touch which brought back to her with more than its usual strength the familiar sense of quiet protection and support. "It would be easier," she thought, "if he would be angry. Why is he not angry? He was an hour ago--and surely I have done enough." But he showed no signs of disapproval,--he was determined that he would not do that,--though their drive was rather a silent one again. And yet, by the time they reached home, Bertha was in some indefinite way prepared for the question he put to her as he assisted her to alight. "May I come in for a little while?" he asked. "I know it is late, but--there is something I must say to you." "Something you must say to me?" she repeated. "I am sure it must be something interesting and something I should like to hear. Come in, by all means." So they entered the house together, and went into the parlor. They found a fire burning there, and Bertha's chair drawn up before it. She loosened her wrap rather deliberately and threw it off, and then sat down as deliberately, arranging her footstool and draperies until she had attained the desired amount of languid comfort in her position. Tredennis did not speak until she was settled. He leaned against the mantel, his eyes bent on the fire. Being fairly arranged, Bertha held out her hand. "Will you give me that feather screen, if you please?" she said,--"the one made of peacock feathers. When one attains years of discretion, one has some care for one's complexion. Did it ever occur to you how serious such matters are, and that the difference between being eighteen and eighty is almost wholly a matter of complexion? If one could remain pink and smooth, one might possibly overcome the rest, and there would be no such thing as growing old. It is not a single plank which is between ourselves and eternity, but a--Would the figure of speech appear appropriate if one said 'a single cuticle'? I am afraid not." He took the screen from its place and regarded it a little absently. "You had this in your hand the first night I came here," he said, "when you told the story of your great lady." She took it from him.