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After a while she came back, and they all three went in to dinner.

Stacey glanced at the table appreciatively. “Phil has one human foible, anyway,” he said to Catherine. “He never cared what he ate, but he’s always been fastidious about how he eats it.”

Catherine gave him a rare smile, that softened her face to beauty. “Do you mean,” she asked, “that all the setting is good, but the dinner itself not?”

He laughed, pleased and surprised at the disappearance of her shyness. “You know I don’t. How can I tell what the dinner’s like when everything’s concealed beneath those heavy silver covers?”

He stayed until very late in the evening. It had always been Catherine’s way to disappear rather early and leave her husband and Stacey to themselves, no doubt because she knew that she had no real part in their intimacy. But to-night, though she went out of the room from time to time, she invariably returned. Indeed, she seemed different to Stacey. It was, he thought, as though one thickness of the veil between them had been stripped away. (Oh, Stacey! Dislike of impressionism?). Once he caught her gazing at him with a melancholy intentness; but, seeing that he was looking, she turned her eyes away at once and stared into the fire.