She looked at her husband, and thought from his restfulness that he had gone to sleep, and she was just beginning to write to that particular friend at Cannes, to tell her what a trial she was undergoing, when Mr. Reffold called her to his side.

“Winifred,” he said gently, and there was tenderness in his voice, and love written on his face, “Winifred, I am sorry if I have been sharp to you.  Little Brick says we mustn’t come down like sledge-hammers on each other; and that is what I have been doing this afternoon.  Perhaps I have been hard:  I am such an illness to myself, that I must be an illness to others too.  And you weren’t meant for this sort of thing—­were you?  You are a bright beautiful creature, and I am an unfortunate dog not to have been able to make you happier.  I know I am irritable.  I can’t help myself, indeed I can’t.”

This great long fellow was so yearning for love and sympathy.

What would it not have been to him if she had gathered him into her arms, and soothed all his irritability and suffering with her love?

But she pressed his hand, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told him that he had been a little sharp, but that she quite understood, and that she was not hurt.  Her charm of manner gave him some satisfaction; and when Bernardine came in a few minutes later, she found Mr. Reffold looking happier and more contented than she had ever seen him.  Mrs. Reffold, who was relieved at the interruption, received Bernardine warmly, though there was a certain amount of shyness which she had never been able to conquer in Bernardine’s presence.  There was something in the younger woman which quelled Mrs. Reffold:  it may have been some mental quality, or it may have been her boots!

“Little Brick,” said Mr. Reffold, “isn’t it nice to have Winifred here?  And I have been so disagreeable and snappish.”

“Oh, we won’t say anything about that now,” said Mrs. Reffold, smiling sweetly.

“But I’ve said I am sorry,” he continued.  “And one can’t do more.”

“No,” said Bernardine, who was amused at the notion of Mr. Reffold apologizing to Mrs. Reffold, and of Mrs. Reffold posing as the gracious forgiver, “one can’t do more.”  But she could not control her feelings, and she laughed.

“You seem rather merry this afternoon,” Mr. Reffold said, in a reproachful tone of voice.

“Yes,” she said.  And she laughed again.  Mrs. Reffold’s forgiving graciousness had altogether upset her gravity.

“You might at least tell us the joke,” Mrs. Reffold said.  Bernardine looked at her hopelessly, and laughed again.

“I have been developing photographs all the afternoon,” she said, “and I suppose the closeness of the air and the badness of my negatives have been too much for me.  Anyway, I know I must seem very rude.”

She recovered herself after that, and tried hard not to think of Mrs. Reffold as the dispenser of forgiveness, although it was some time before she could look at her hostess without wishing to laugh.  The corners of her mouth twitched, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously, and she spoke very rapidly, making fun of her first attempts at photography, and criticising herself so comically, that both and Mrs. Reffold were much amused.