Winifred had grown stout, which, on a slim, small-boned woman is
quickly apparent; and, to Clive, her sleepy, uncertain grey eyes
seemed even nearer together than he remembered them.

She was seated in the yellow and white living-room of her apartment at
the Regina, still holding the card he had sent up; and she made no
movement to rise when her maid announced him and ushered him in, or to
greet him at all except with a slight nod and a slighter gesture
indicating a chair across the room.

He said: "I did not know until this morning that you were in this
country."

"Was it necessary to inform you?"

"No, not necessary," he said, "unless you have come to some definite
decision concerning our future relations."

Her eyes seemed to grow sleepier and nearer together than ever.

"Why," he asked, wearily, "have you employed an agency to have me
followed?"

She lifted her drooping lids and finely pencilled brows. "Have you
been followed?"

"At intervals, as you know. Would you mind saying why? Because you
have always been welcome to divorce."

She sat silent, slowly tearing into tiny squares the card he had sent
up. Presently, as at an afterthought, she collected all the fragments
and placed them in a heap on the table beside her.

"Well?" she inquired, glancing up at him. "Is that all you have to
say?"