What on earth had she come for?
To recover him ?--to protest against his not writing ?--to make a scene, in short?
His guilty imagination in a flash showed her to him throwing herself into his arms--weeping--on this wide lawn--for all the world to see.
But she did nothing of the kind.

She directed the motor, which was really a taxi from the station, to stop without approaching the front door, and then she herself walked quickly towards her husband.
"Arthur!--you got my letter?
I could only write yesterday." She had reached him, and they had joined hands mechanically.
"Letter ?--I got no letter! If you posted one, it has probably arrived by your train.

What on earth, Doris, is the meaning of this?
Is there anything wrong ?" His expression was half angry, half concerned, for he saw plainly that she was tired and jaded.

Of course! Long journeys always knocked her up.
She meanwhile stood looking at him as though trying to read the impression produced on him by her escapade.

Something evidently in his manner hurt her, for she withdrew her hand, and her face stiffened.
"There is nothing wrong with me, thank you! Of course I did not come without good reason." "But, my dear, are you come to stay ?" cried Meadows, looking helplessly at the taxi.