No; she could be trusted; she had every reason to be true.
Some fitful sleep came to her at last in the morning hours.

But when Roger awoke, she was half-way through her dressing; and when he first saw her, he noticed nothing except that she was paler than usual, and confessed to a broken night.
* * * * * But as the day wore on it became plain to everybody at Heston--to Roger first and foremost--that something was much amiss.

Daphne would not leave her sitting-room and her sofa; she complained of headache and over-fatigue; would have nothing to say to the men at work on the new decoration of the east wing of the house, who were clamouring for directions; and would admit nobody but Miss Farmer and her maid.

Roger forced his way in once, only to be vanquished by the traditional weapons of weakness, pallor, and silence.

Her face contracted and quivered as his step approached her; it was as though he trampled upon her; and he left her, awkwardly, on tiptoe, feeling himself as intrusively brutal as she clearly meant him to feel.
What on earth was the matter?
Some new grievance against him, he supposed.