down-bent head, was approaching the hotel from the pier. Anne recognised
it as that of her husband. Both sights reminded her that her life had to
be begun all over again, and to go on.

Another hour passed. Majendie had sent up a waitress with breakfast to
her room. He was always thoughtful for her comfort. It did not occur to
her to wonder what significance there might be in his thus keeping away
from her, or what attitude toward her he would now be inclined to take.
She would not have admitted that he had a right to any attitude at all.
It was for her, as the profoundly injured person, to decide as to the new
disposal of their relations.

She was very clear about her grievance. The facts, that her husband had
been pointed at in the public drawing-room of their hotel; that the
terrible statement she had overheard had been made and received casually;
that he had assumed, no less casually, her knowledge of the thing, all
bore but one interpretation: that Walter Majendie and the scandal he had
figured in were alike notorious. The marvel was that, staying in the town
where he lived and was known, she herself had not heard of it before. A
peculiarly ugly thought visited her. Was it possible that Scarby was the
very place where the scandal had occurred?

She remembered now that, when she had first proposed that watering-place
for their honeymoon, he had objected on the ground that Scarby was full
of people whom he knew. Besides, he had said, she wouldn't like it. But
whether she would like it or not, Anne, who had her bridal dignity to
maintain, considered that in the matter of her honeymoon his wishes
should give way to hers. She was inclined to measure the extent of his
devotion by that test. Scarby, she said, was not full of people who knew
_her_. Anne had been insistent and Majendie passive, as he was in most