"How do you mean?" she said, still looking into the glass. "What do you mean, Peter? I haven't noticed anything different."

"Oh yes, you have. You know that--ever since Stephen died and before that really--you've avoided me. You'd rather be without me than with me. You've all thought me selfish and glum and so I suppose I was. But I missed--the kid--a lot." Again Peter felt her hand tremble. He pressed it. Then he went on, leaning more toward her now and putting an arm out to touch her dress.

"Clare--it's been like a fog all these weeks--we've never had it out, we've never talked about it, but you've been disappointed in me. You thought I was going to write great books and I haven't--and then your mother--and I--don't get on. And then I suppose I'm stupid in society--I can't talk a lot to any one who comes along as all you people can. I've been brought up differently and--and--I know you don't like to think about that either, and so I'll never bring my old friends into the house and I'll see that I'm not such a gawk at your parties--"

He paused for a moment; she was looking down now and he couldn't see her eyes. He bent forward more closely--his arm caught her waist--his hand crushed hers--

She tried desperately to pull herself together to say something--

"No--there's nothing. Well, if there is--Of course I suppose it happens to all married people--"

"What happens?"

"Why, they find one another out a little. Things aren't quite as they thought they'd be. That must happen always."

"But tell me--tell me the things in me that have disappointed you and then I can alter--"

"Well--it's a little as you say. You have been rather rude to Mother.

And then--your quarrel--"

"What! You mean with Cards!"

"With--Jerry--yes. And then," her voice was high and sharp now--her eyes avoided his--"I've always--been happy, until _I_ married.

Things frighten me. You don't understand me, Peter, how easily I'm frightened--you never seemed to see that. Other people--know."

"I've been selfish--I--"

"Yes," she went on still in that high voice, "and you never consider me in little things. And you laugh at me as though I were stupid. I don't suppose it's all your fault. You were brought up--roughly. But you _are_ rough. You hurt me often. I can't bear," her lip was trembling and she was nearly crying--"I can't bear being unhappy--"

"My God!" cried Peter, "what a beast I am! What a brute I've been!"

"Yes--and you never seemed to think that I minded poor little Stephen's death--the dear little thing--of course it hurt me dreadfully--and you never thought of _me_--"

"It's all going to be different now. Love me, Clare--love me and it will all come back. And then if you'll only love me I'll be able to write the most wonderful books. I'll be famous all the world over--if you'll only love me, Clare darling--"

He dropt on to his knees before her and looking up at her whispered--"Clare--darling, darling--you're all that I've got now--everything in the world. And in return I'll try to be everything to you. I'll spend my life in making you happy. I'll care for only one thing and that is to be your servant. Clare--Clare--"

She gave a little protesting cry--"Peter, Peter--don't--I--I--can't--"

and then in a shuddering whisper--"Peter--I'm not good enough--I don't love you now--I--can't--"

But he had caught her, was holding her to him now, with both his arms round her, pressing her against his shirt, hurting her--at last covering her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks with kisses.

He had not heard those words now, in the triumph of having her back again, his as she had been on the first day of their marriage, did not feel her body unresponsive, her hands cold, nor did he see the appeal, wild and desperate, in her eyes....

At last he left her, closing, softly her door between them.

CHAPTER XIV

PETER BUYS A PRESENT

I

Peter did not hesitate now. He should win Clare back with his strong right hand and he would rule The Roundabout with a rod of iron. Ruling The Roundabout meant ruling Mrs. Rossiter and he was surprised at the ease with which he won his victory over that lady. Had he considered it more deeply that easy victory might have seemed to him ominous.

At luncheon on the day after his talk with Clare they three sat together--Mrs. Rossiter silent, Clare silent, Peter silent.

Suddenly Peter said: "Oh by the way, Clare, I telephoned for seats this morning for the new thing at the Criterion. I got two stalls."

They had not been to the theatre together since Stephen's death.

Clare lifted a white face--"I don't think I--"

"Oh yes," said Peter, smiling across at her--"you'll enjoy it."

Mrs. Rossiter stroking her large bosom with a flat white hand said, "I don't think Clare--"

"Oh yes," said Peter again, "it will do her good."

Mrs. Rossiter smiled. "Get another stall, Peter, and I will come too."

"I'm afraid," said Peter very politely, "that it's too late. The piece is a thumping success. I was very lucky to get any seats at all."

And then Mrs. Rossiter subsided, absolutely subsided ... very strange.

That was not a very happy evening. Clare scarcely spoke, she answered him with "Yes" and "No," she sat in the stalls looking like a little unhappy ghost. She did not in any way repulse him--she let him take her hand coming home in the cab. She shivered and he asked whether she were cold and she said, Yes, she thought that she was. That night he came in, took her for a moment in his hands, kissed her very gently on the lips, and said--

"Clare, you're not angry with me for last night?"

"No" she answered him. Then she added slowly, as though she were repeating a part that she'd learnt, "Thank you for taking me to the play, Peter. I was rather tired. But thank you for taking me."

He went to bed thanking God for this change in her. "I'll make her love me just as she used to, those days on our honeymoon. God bless her."

Yes, Mrs. Rossiter was strangely altered. It all shows what one can do with a woman when one tries. Her hostile placidity had given place to something almost pathetic. One would have thought, had one not known that lady's invariable assurance of movement, that she was perplexed, almost distressed.

Peter was conscious that Clare was now as silent with her mother as she was with him. He perceived that Mrs. Rossiter was disturbed at Clare's reticence. He fancied that he sometimes interrupted little conversations between the mother and the daughter the intention of which was, on Mrs.

Rossiter's part at any rate, that "Clare should tell her something."

There was no doubt at all, that Mrs. Rossiter was anxious.

Even--although this seemed impossible--she appeared to be ready to accept Peter as a friend and ally now--now after these many weeks of hostility. Surely women are strange creatures. In any case, one may observe the yellow brooch agitated now and ill at ease.

Very soon, too, Cards came to make his farewells--he was going to Paris for the whole of May.

"What! Won't you be back for the beginning of the Season?" cried Peter astonished.

"No," Cards answered, laughing. "For once the Season can commence without me."