Montague Hill. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. Yet every now and then, during the progress of the meal, his attention apparently wandered, and leaning forward he glanced covertly at Anna with a curious mixture of expressions on his face.
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