The feeling had never been stronger than on the December
afternoon when, waiting in the library for the belated lamps, she
rose from her seat and stood among the shadows of the hearth.
Her husband had gone off, after luncheon, for one of his long
tramps on the downs. She had noticed of late that he preferred
to be unaccompanied on these occasions; and, in the tried
security of their personal relations, had been driven to conclude
that his book was bothering him, and that he needed the
afternoons to turn over in solitude the problems left from the
morning's work. Certainly the book was not going as smoothly as
she had imagined it would, and the lines of perplexity between
his eyes had never been there in his engineering days. Then he
had often looked fagged to the verge of illness, but the native
demon of "worry" had never branded his brow. Yet the few pages
he had so far read to her--the introduction, and a synopsis of
the opening chapter--gave evidences of a firm possession of his
subject, and a deepening confidence in his powers.

The fact threw her into deeper perplexity, since, now that he had
done with "business" and its disturbing contingencies, the one
other possible element of anxiety was eliminated. Unless it were
his health, then? But physically he had gained since they had
come to Dorsetshire, grown robuster, ruddier, and fresher-eyed.
It was only within a week that she had felt in him the
undefinable change that made her restless in his absence, and as
tongue-tied in his presence as though it were SHE who had a
secret to keep from him!

The thought that there WAS a secret somewhere between them struck