At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's illness and of the
resulting complications. She listened sympathetically, adjuring him
not to let himself be overworked, and asking vague feminine
questions about the routine of the office. Then she gave him the
chronicle of Lily's day; quoted the nurse and doctor, and told him
who had called to inquire. He had never seen her more serene and
unruffled. It struck him, with a curious pang, that she was very
happy in being with him, so happy that she found a childish pleasure
in rehearsing the trivial incidents of her day.

After dinner they went to the library, and the servant put the
coffee and liqueurs on a low table before her and left the room. She
looked singularly soft and girlish in her rosy pale dress, against
the dark leather of one of his bachelor armchairs. A day earlier the
contrast would have charmed him.

He turned away now, choosing a cigar with affected deliberation.

"Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to her.

"Oh, yes--he came."

"You didn't see him, of course?"

She hesitated a moment. "I let the nurse see him."

That was all. There was nothing more to ask. He swung round toward
her, applying a match to his cigar. Well, the thing was over for a
week, at any rate. He would try not to think of it. She looked up at