his wife, very weak from the pain of the night before last, yet
intensely, almost viciously alive. He wished he had not gone to the
Battys' ball; it had upset her and done him no good. If it had not
been for that walk on the terrace--

He shut the door gently and stood by her. 'Are you in pain?' he asked.
He felt remorsefully that he did not know how to treat her; he had not
love enough, yet with all his heart he wanted to be kind.

'You haven't kissed me to-day,' she said. 'No, don't do it. You don't
want to, do you?'

'Yes, I do,' he said, and as he bent over her he was touched by the
contented sigh she gave. If he could begin over again, he told
himself, with the virtue of the man who has committed himself fatally,
things would be different. If he hadn't brought Henrietta to such a
pass, they should be different now.

'I've never stopped being fond of you, Christabel.'

She laughed and disconcerted him. 'Or of your horses, or your dogs,'
she said. 'No one could expect you to care much for a useless log like
me. No one could have expected you not to go to that dance.' Tears
filled her eyes. 'But I was lonely. And I imagined you there--'

'I wish I hadn't gone,' he said truthfully.

She seemed to consider that remark, but presently she asked, 'Have you
lost something?'