"What is it ?" he whispered.
"Come out in the grove and have a smoke," said Horace, with a look towards the door through which Sylvia had gone.
Henry nodded.

He gathered up his pipe and tobacco from the table, and the two men sauntered out of the house into the grove.

But even there not much was said.

Both smoked in silence, sitting on the bench, before Horace opened his lips in response to Henry's inquiry.
"I don't know what it is, and I don't know that it is anything, and that is the worst of it," he said, gloomily; "and I can't see my way to telling any mortal what little I do know that leads me to fear that it is something, although I would if I were sure and actually knew beyond doubt that there was--" He stopped abruptly and blew a ring of smoke from his cigar.
"Something is queer about my wife lately," said Henry, in a low voice.
"What ?" "That's just it.

I feel something as you do.