open window. There she sat, with her back to the bed, and her eyes
staring over the grey parade and out to the eastern sea.

"Anne," said her husband, "what are you doing there?"

Anne made no answer.

"Come back to bed; you'll catch cold."

He waited.

"How long are you going to sit there in that draught?"

She sat on, upright, immovable, in her thin nightgown, raked by the keen
air of the dawn. Majendie raised himself on his elbow. He could just see
her where she glimmered, and her braid of hair, uncoiled, hanging to her
waist. Up till now he had been profoundly unhappy and ashamed, but
something in the unconquerable obstinacy of her attitude appealed to the
devil that lived in him, a devil of untimely and disastrous humour. The
right thing, he felt, was not to appear as angry as he was. He sat up on
his pillow, and began to talk to her with genial informality.

"See here,--I suppose you want an explanation. But don't you think we'd
better wait until we're up? Up and dressed, I mean. I can't talk
seriously before I've had a bath and--and brushed my hair. You see,
you've taken rather an unfair advantage of me by getting out of bed."
(He paused for an answer, and still no answer came.)--"Don't imagine I'm
ignobly lying down all the time, wrapped in a blanket. I'm sitting on my
pillow. I know there's any amount to be said. But how do you suppose I'm
going to say it if I've got to stay here, all curled up like a blessed