Why was it that, so often, when absent from him, her imagination helped her to make excuses for him, inspired her to press the real truth out of sight, and to make believe that he was worthy of a love which, but through some inner fault of her own, might be his altogether, and all the love of which he was capable might be hers?
She felt him near her, and the feelings possessing her a moment before slowly chilled and sank away.

Instinctively her eyes glanced towards the door.

She saw the handle turn, and she slipped the letter inside the portfolio again.
The door opened briskly now, and Eglington entered with what his enemies in the newspaper press had called his "professional smile"-- a criticism which had angered his wife, chiefly because it was so near the truth.
He smiled.

Smiling was part of his equipment, and was for any one at any time that suited him.
Her eyes met his, and he noted in her something that he had never seen before.

Something had happened.