The summer had been more than usually inclement, and since her first coming to the country Undine had lived through many periods of rainy weather; but none which had gone before had so completely epitomized, so summed up in one vast monotonous blur, the image of her long months at Saint Desert.

When, the year before, she had reluctantly suffered herself to be torn from the joys of Paris, she had been sustained by the belief that her exile would not be of long duration.  Once Paris was out of sight, she had even found a certain lazy charm in the long warm days at Saint Desert.  Her parents-in-law had remained in town, and she enjoyed being alone with her husband, exploring and appraising the treasures of the great half abandoned house, and watching her boy scamper over the June meadows or trot about the gardens on the poney his stepfather had given him.  Paul, after Mrs. Heeny’s departure, had grown fretful and restive, and Undine had found it more and more difficult to fit his small exacting personality into her cramped rooms and crowded life.  He irritated her by pining for his Aunt Laura, his Marvell granny, and old Mr. Dagonet’s funny stories about gods and fairies; and his wistful allusions to his games with Clare’s children sounded like a lesson he might have been drilled in to make her feel how little he belonged to her.  But once released from Paris, and blessed with rabbits, a poney and the freedom of the fields, he became again all that a charming child should be, and for a time it amused her to share in his romps and rambles.  Raymond seemed enchanted at the picture they made, and the quiet weeks of fresh air and outdoor activity gave her back a bloom that reflected itself in her tranquillized mood.  She was the more resigned to this interlude because she was so sure of its not lasting.  Before they left Paris a doctor had been found to say that Paul—­who was certainly looking pale and pulled-down—­was in urgent need of sea air, and Undine had nearly convinced her husband of the expediency of hiring a chalet at Deauville for July and August, when this plan, and with it every other prospect of escape, was dashed by the sudden death of the old Marquis.

Undine, at first, had supposed that the resulting change could not be other than favourable.  She had been on too formal terms with her father-in-law—­a remote and ceremonious old gentleman to whom her own personality was evidently an insoluble enigma—­to feel more than the merest conventional pang at his death; and it was certainly “more fun” to be a marchioness than a countess, and to know that one’s husband was the head of the house.  Besides, now they would have the chateau to themselves—­or at least the old Marquise, when she came, would be there as a guest and not a ruler—­and visions of smart house-parties and big shoots lit up the first weeks of Undine’s enforced seclusion.  Then, by degrees, the inexorable conditions of French mourning closed in on her.  Immediately after the long-drawn