But I must go in and see whether the tea is ready. Alice
will be wanting to go out directly.' Darnell looked after his wife as she walked quickly away. He only dimly
understood, but he could see the charm of her figure, the delight of the
brown curls clustering about her neck, and he again felt that sense of
the scholar confronted by the hieroglyphic. He could not have expressed
his emotion, but he wondered whether he would ever find the key, and
something told him that before she could speak to him his own lips must
be unclosed. She had gone into the house by the back kitchen door,
leaving it open, and he heard her speaking to the girl about the water
being 'really boiling.' He was amazed, almost indignant with himself;
but the sound of the words came to his ears as strange, heart-piercing
music, tones from another, wonderful sphere. And yet he was her husband,
and they had been married nearly a year; and yet, whenever she spoke, he
had to listen to the sense of what she said, constraining himself, lest
he should believe she was a magic creature, knowing the secrets of
immeasurable delight. He looked out through the leaves of the mulberry tree. Mr. Sayce had
disappeared from his view, but he saw the light-blue fume of the cigar
that he was smoking floating slowly across the shadowed air. He was
wondering at his wife's manner when Sayce's name was mentioned, puzzling
his head as to what could be amiss in the household of a most
respectable personage, when his wife appeared at the dining-room window
and called him in to tea. She smiled as he looked up, and he rose
hastily and walked in, wondering whether he were not a little 'queer,'
so strange were the dim emotions and the dimmer impulses that rose
within him. Alice was all shining purple and strong scent, as she brought in the
teapot and the jug of hot water. It seemed that a visit to the kitchen
had inspired Mrs. Darnell in her turn with a novel plan for disposing of
the famous ten pounds. The range had always been a trouble to her, and
when sometimes she went into the kitchen, and found, as she said, the
fire 'roaring halfway up the chimney,' it was in vain that she reproved
the maid on the ground of extravagance and waste of coal. Alice was
ready to admit the absurdity of making up such an enormous fire merely
to bake (they called it 'roast') a bit of beef or mutton, and to boil
the potatoes and the cabbage; but she was able to show Mrs. Darnell that
the fault lay in the defective contrivance of the range, in an oven
which 'would not get hot.' Even with a chop or a steak it was almost as
bad; the heat seemed to escape up the chimney or into the room, and Mary
had spoken several times to her husband on the shocking waste of coal,
and the cheapest coal procurable was never less than eighteen shillings
the ton. Mr. Darnell had written to the landlord, a builder, who had
replied in an illiterate but offensive communication, maintaining the
excellence of the stove and charging all the faults to the account of
'your good lady,' which really implied that the Darnells kept no
servant, and that Mrs. Darnell did everything. The range, then,
remained, a standing annoyance and expense. Every morning, Alice said,
she had the greatest difficulty in getting the fire to light at all, and
once lighted it 'seemed as if it fled right up the chimney.' Only a few
nights before Mrs. Darnell had spoken seriously to her husband about it;
she had got Alice to weigh the coals expended in cooking a cottage pie,
the dish of the evening, and deducting what remained in the scuttle
after the pie was done, it appeared that the wretched thing had consumed
nearly twice the proper quantity of fuel. 'You remember what I said the other night about the range?' said Mrs.
Darnell, as she poured out the tea and watered the leaves. She thought
the introduction a good one, for though her husband was a most amiable
man, she guessed that he had been just a little hurt by her decision
against his furnishing scheme. 'The range?' said Darnell. He paused as he helped himself to the
marmalade and considered for a moment. 'No, I don't recollect. What
night was it?' 'Tuesday. Don't you remember? You had "overtime," and didn't get home
till quite late.' She paused for a moment, blushing slightly; and then began to
recapitulate the misdeeds of the range, and the outrageous outlay of
coal in the preparation of the cottage pie. 'Oh, I recollect now. That was the night I thought I heard the
nightingale (people say there are nightingales in Bedford Park), and the
sky was such a wonderful deep blue.' He remembered how he had walked from Uxbridge Road Station, where the
green 'bus stopped, and in spite of the fuming kilns under Acton, a
delicate odour of the woods and summer fields was mysteriously in the
air, and he had fancied that he smelt the red wild roses, drooping from
the hedge. As he came to his gate he saw his wife standing in the
doorway, with a light in her hand, and he threw his arms violently about
her as she welcomed him, and whispered something in her ear, kissing her
scented hair. He had felt quite abashed a moment afterwards, and he was
afraid that he had frightened her by his nonsense; she seemed trembling
and confused. And then she had told him how they had weighed the coal. 'Yes, I remember now,' he said. 'It is a great nuisance, isn't it? I
hate to throw away money like that.' 'Well, what do you think? Suppose we bought a really good range with
aunt's money? It would save us a lot, and I expect the things would
taste much nicer.' Darnell passed the marmalade, and confessed that the idea was brilliant. 'It's much better than mine, Mary,' he said quite frankly. 'I am so glad
you thought of it. But we must talk it over; it doesn't do to buy in a
hurry. There are so many makes.' Each had seen ranges which looked miraculous inventions; he in the
neighbourhood of the City; she in Oxford Street and Regent Street, on
visits to the dentist. They discussed the matter at tea, and afterwards
they discussed it walking round and round the garden, in the sweet cool
of the evening. 'They say the "Newcastle" will burn anything, coke even,' said Mary. 'But the "Glow" got the gold medal at the Paris Exhibition,' said
Edward. 'But what about the "Eutopia" Kitchener? Have you seen it at work in
Oxford Street?' said Mary. 'They say their plan of ventilating the oven
is quite unique.' 'I was in Fleet Street the other day,' answered Edward, 'and I was
looking at the "Bliss" Patent Stoves. They burn less fuel than any in
the market--so the makers declare.' He put his arm gently round her waist. She did not repel him; she
whispered quite softly--

'I think Mrs. Parker is at her window,' and he drew his arm back slowly. 'But we will talk it over,' he said. 'There is no hurry. I might call at
some of the places near the City, and you might do the same thing in
Oxford Street and Regent Street and Piccadilly, and we could compare
notes.'