“For me, in any case, it is the end of years of miserable uncertainty—­of a semi-deception I could not escape—­and of a moral loneliness I cannot describe.  I must have often puzzled you and many others of my friends.  Well, you have the key now.  I can and will speak freely when we meet again.

“According to present plans, I bring the boy back to-morrow.  Ramsay is to find me a specially trained nurse and will keep him under his own observation for a time.  We may also have a specialist down at once.

“I shall of course hurry back as soon as I can—­Anna’s state is critical—­

“Yours ever effectionately,

“BUNTINGFORD.”

“P.S.—­I don’t know much about the domestic conditions in the Ramsays’ house.  Ramsay I have every confidence in.  He has always seemed to me a very clever and a very nice fellow.  And I imagine Mrs. Ramsay is a competent woman.”

“She isn’t!” said Cynthia, suddenly springing up in bed.  “She is an incompetent goose!  As for looking after that poor child and his nurse—­properly—­she couldn’t!”

Quite another plan shaped itself in her mind.  But she did not as yet communicate it to Georgina.

After breakfast she loaded her little pony carriage with all the invalid necessaries she had promised Miss Alcott, and drove them over to the Rectory.  Alcott saw her arrival from his study, and came out, his finger on his lip, to meet her.

“Many, many thanks,” he said, looking at what she had brought.  “It is awfully good of you.  I will take them in—­but I ask myself—­will she ever live through the day?  Lord Buntingford and Ramsay hurried off by the first train this morning.  She has enquired for the boy, and they will bring him back as soon as they can.  She gives herself no chance!  She is so weak—­but her will is terribly strong!  We can’t get her to obey the doctor’s orders.  Of course, it is partly the restlessness of the condition.”

Cynthia’s eyes travelled to the upper window above the study.  Buntingford’s wife lay there!  It seemed to her that the little room held all the secrets of Buntingford’s past.  The dying woman knew them, and she alone.  A new jealousy entered into Cynthia—­a despairing sense of the irrevocable.  Helena was forgotten.

At noon Julian Horne arrived, bringing a book that Cynthia had lent him.  He stayed to gossip about the break-up of the party.

“Everybody has cleared out except myself and Geoffrey.  Miss Helena and her chaperon went this morning before lunch.  Buntingford of course had gone before they came down.  French tells me they have gone to a little inn in Wales he recommended.  Miss Helena said she wanted something to draw, and a quiet place.  I must say she looked pretty knocked up!—­I suppose by the dance?”

His sharp greenish eyes perused Cynthia’s countenance.  She made no reply.  His remark did not interest a preoccupied woman.  Yet she did not fail to remember, with a curious pleasure, that there was no mention of Helena in Buntingford’s letter.