his sententious fashion of criticising and warning people, and his readiness to prove the whole world wrong in order to show himself to be right.  All these and many other things Lavender meant to say to Sheila so soon as she had protested against his forbidding Ingram to come any more to the house.  But there was no protest.  Sheila did not even seem surprised.  She went back to her seat by the window, folded up Duncan’s letter and put it in her pocket; and then she turned to look at the sea.

Lavender regarded her for a moment, apparently doubting whether he should himself prosecute the subject:  then he turned and left the room.

Sheila did not cry or otherwise seek to compassionate and console herself.  Her husband had told her to do a certain thing, and she would do it.  Perhaps she had been imprudent in having confided in Mr. Ingram, and if so, it was right that she should be punished.  But the regret and pain that lay deep in her heart were that Ingram should have suffered through her, and that she had no opportunity of telling him that, though they might not see each other, she would never forget her friendship for him, or cease to be grateful to him for his unceasing and generous kindness to her.

Next morning Lavender was summoned to London by a telegram which announced that his aunt was seriously ill.  He and Sheila got ready at once, left by a forenoon train, had some brief luncheon at home, and then went down to see the old lady in Kensington Gore.  During their journey Lavender had been rather more courteous and kindly toward Sheila than was his wont.  Was he pleased that she had so readily obeyed him in this matter of giving up about the only friend she had in London? or was he moved by some visitation of compunction?  Sheila tried to show that she was grateful for his kindness, but there was that between them which could not be removed by chance phrases or attentions.

Mrs. Lavender was in her own room.  Paterson brought word that she wanted to see Sheila first and alone; so Lavender sat down in the gloomy drawing-room by the window, and watched the people riding and driving past, and the sunshine on the dusty green trees in the Park.

“Is Frank Lavender below?” said the thin old woman, who was propped up in bed, with some scarlet garment around her that made her resemble more than ever the cockatoo of which Sheila had thought on first seeing her.  “Yes,” said Sheila.  “I want to see you alone:  I can’t bear him dawdling about a room, and staring at things, and saying nothing.  Does he speak to you?”

Sheila did not wish to enter into any controversy about the habits of her husband, so she said, “I hope you will see him before he goes, Mrs. Lavender.  He is very anxious to know how you are, and I am glad to find you looking so well.  You do not look like an invalid at all.”

“Oh, I’m not going to die yet,” said the little dried old woman with the harsh voice, the staring eyes and the tightly-twisted gray hair.  “I hope you didn’t come to read the Bible to me:  you wouldn’t find one about in any case, I should think.  If you like to sit down and read the sayings of the emperor Marcus Antoninus, I should enjoy that; but I suppose you are too busy thinking what dress you’ll wear at my funeral.”