“Not actually met him—­but he’s been pointed out to me.  It must have been some years ago.  Yes—­it was one night at the theatre, just after you announced your engagement.”  He fancied her voice trembled slightly, as though she thought he might notice her way of dating her memories.  “You came into our box,” she went on, “and I asked you the name of the red-faced man who was sitting in the stall next to Undine.  You didn’t know, but some one told us it was Moffatt.”

Marvell was more struck by her tone than by what she was saying.  “If Undine knows him it’s odd she’s never mentioned it,” he answered indifferently.

The motor stopped at his door and Clare, as she held out her hand, turned a first full look on him.

“Why do you never come to see me?  I miss you more than ever,” she said.

He pressed her hand without answering, but after the motor had rolled away he stood for a while on the pavement, looking after it.

When he entered the house the hall was still dark and the small over-furnished drawing-room empty.  The parlour-maid told him that Mrs. Marvell had not yet come in, and he went upstairs to the nursery.  But on the threshold the nurse met him with the whispered request not to make a noise, as it had been hard to quiet the boy after the afternoon’s disappointment, and she had just succeeded in putting him to sleep.  Ralph went down to his own room and threw himself in the old college arm-chair in which, four years previously, he had sat the night out, dreaming of Undine.  He had no study of his own, and he had crowded into his narrow bed-room his prints and bookshelves, and the other relics of his youth.  As he sat among them now the memory of that other night swept over him—­the night when he had heard the “call”!  Fool as he had been not to recognize its meaning then, he knew himself triply mocked in being, even now, at its mercy.  The flame of love that had played about his passion for his wife had died down to its embers; all the transfiguring hopes and illusions were gone, but they had left an unquenchable ache for her nearness, her smile, her touch.  His life had come to be nothing but a long effort to win these mercies by one concession after another:  the sacrifice of his literary projects, the exchange of his profession for an uncongenial business, and the incessant struggle to make enough money to satisfy her increasing exactions.  That was where the “call” had led him...  The clock struck eight, but it was useless to begin to dress till Undine came in, and he stretched himself out in his chair, reached for a pipe and took up the evening paper.  His passing annoyance had died out; he was usually too tired after his day’s work for such feelings to keep their edge long.  But he was curious—­disinterestedly curious—­to know what pretext Undine would invent for being so late, and what excuse she would have found for forgetting the little boy’s birthday.