VII

           Aknockrousedhimandlookinguphesawhiswife.Hemetherglanceinsilence,andshefalteredout,“Areyouill?”

           Thewordsrestoredhisself-possession.“Ill?Ofcoursenot.TheytoldmeyouwereoutandIcameupstairs.”

           Thebookslaybetweenthemonthetable;hewonderedwhenshewouldseethem.Shelingeredtentativelyonthethreshold,withtheairofleavinghisexplanationonhishands.Shewasnotthekindofwomanwhocouldbecountedontofortifyanexcusebyappearingtodisputeit.

           “Wherehaveyoubeen?”Glennardasked,movingforwardsothatheobstructedhervisionofthebooks.

           “IwalkedovertotheDreshamsfortea.”

           “Ican’tthinkwhatyouseeinthosepeople,”hesaidwithashrug;adding,uncontrollably—“IsupposeFlamelwasthere?”

           “No;heleftontheyachtthismorning.”

           AnanswersoobstructingtothenaturalescapeofhisirritationleftGlennardwithnomomentaryresourcebutthatofstrollingimpatientlytothewindow.Ashereyesfollowedhimtheylitonthebooks.

           “Ah,you’vebroughtthem!I’msoglad,”sheexclaimed.

           Heansweredoverhisshoulder,“Forawomanwhoneverreadsyoumakethemostastoundingexceptions!”

           Hersmilewasanexasperatingconcessiontotheprobabilitythatithadbeenhotintownorthatsomethinghadbotheredhim.

           “Doyoumeanit’snotnicetowanttoreadthebook?”sheasked.