dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. In the
excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the
women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over
their knees. He spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the
thick obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up their work,
bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and
nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their
happiness. But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly perceived life from a
woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these
women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their
conversation. He was as far removed from one as from the other. Emily's
wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to
talk about to Mrs. Bentley.

He missed the bachelor evenings of former days--the whisky and water, the
pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to
think of London; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he
had not seen for so long, and at the end of July he announced his intention
of running up to town for a few days. So one morning breakfast was hurried
through; Emily was sure there was plenty of time; Hubert looked at the
clock and said he must be off; Julia ran after him with parcels which he
had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight,
and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room
thoughtfully.

'I wonder if he'll catch the train,' said Emily, without taking her face
from the window.

'I hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. There
isn't another train before three o'clock.'