bent above the task, and one beringed white hand steadying the lid
of the coffee-pot; then he stretched his other hand to the decanter
of cognac at his elbow, filled a liqueur-glass, took a tentative
sip, and poured the brandy into his coffee-cup.

Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascination. What was he thinking
of--only of the flavor of the coffee and the liqueur? Had the
morning's meeting left no more trace in his thoughts than on his
face? Had his wife so completely passed out of his life that even
this odd encounter with her present husband, within a week after her
remarriage, was no more than an incident in his day? And as Waythorn
mused, another idea struck him: had Haskett ever met Varick as
Varick and he had just met? The recollection of Haskett perturbed
him, and he rose and left the restaurant, taking a circuitous way
out to escape the placid irony of Varick's nod.

It was after seven when Waythorn reached home. He thought the
footman who opened the door looked at him oddly.

"How is Miss Lily?" he asked in haste.

"Doing very well, sir. A gentleman--"

"Tell Barlow to put off dinner for half an hour," Waythorn cut him
off, hurrying upstairs.

He went straight to his room and dressed without seeing his wife.
When he reached the drawing-room she was there, fresh and radiant.
Lily's day had been good; the doctor was not coming back that
evening.