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He's getting too selfish for anything."
He put down his newspaper and picked up his letters. For a moment he felt
as though he could not look at them in the presence of his wife. He
glanced quickly at the envelopes. There was nothing there from Falk. His
heart gave a little clap of relief.
"At any rate, he hasn't written," he said. "He can't be far away."
"There's another post at ten-thirty," she answered.
He was angry with her for that. How like her! Why could she not allow
things to be pleasant as long as possible?
She went on: "He's taken nothing with him. Not even a hand-bag. He hasn't
been back in the house since luncheon yesterday."
"Oh! he'll turn up!" Brandon went back to his paper. "Mustard, Joan,
please." Breakfast over, he went into his study and sat at the long
writing-table, pretending to be about his morning correspondence. He could
not settle to that; he had never been one to whom it was easy to control
his mind, and now his heart and soul were filled with foreboding.
It seemed to him that for weeks past he had been dreading some
catastrophe.


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