Lady Newhaven was lying on a sofa by the wood fire in the drawing-room.

Rachel went straight up to her, and said, hoarsely: 

“Lord Newhaven tells me he is going to London this evening by the night express.”

Lady Newhaven threw up her arms.

“Then it is he,” she said.  “When he stayed on and on up to to-day I began to be afraid that it was not he, after all; and yet little things made me feel sure it was, and that he was only waiting to do it before me and the children.  I have been so horribly frightened.  Oh, if he might only go away, and that I might never, never look upon his face again!”

Rachel sat down by the latticed window and looked out into the darkness.  She could not bear to look at Lady Newhaven.  Was there any help anywhere from this horror of death without, from this demon of jealousy within?

“I am her only friend,” she said to herself, over and over again.  “I cannot bear it, and I must bear it.  I cannot desert her now.  She has no one to turn to but me.”

“Rachel, where are you?” said the feeble, plaintive voice.

Rachel rose and went unsteadily towards her.  It was fortunate the room was lit only by the fire-light.

“Sit down by me here on the sofa, and let me lean against you.  You do comfort me, Rachel, though you say nothing.  You are the only true friend I have in the world, the only woman who really loves me.  Your cheek is quite wet, and you are actually trembling.  You always feel for me.  I can bear it now you are here, and he is going away.”

* * * * *

When the boys had been reluctantly coerced to bed, Lord Newhaven rang for his valet, told him what to pack, that he should not want him to accompany him, and then went to his sitting-room on the ground-floor.

“Scarlett seems a fortunate person,” he said, pacing up and down.  “That woman loves him, and if she marries him she will reform him.  Is he going to escape altogether in this world and the next—­if there is a next?  Is there no justice anywhere?  Perhaps at this moment he is thinking that he has salved his conscience by offering to fight, and that, after all, I can’t do anything to prevent his living and marrying her if he chooses.  He knows well enough I shall not touch him, or sue for a divorce, for fear of the scandal.  He thinks he has me there.  And he is right.  But he is mistaken if he thinks I can do nothing.  I may as well go up to London and see for myself whether he is still on his feet to-morrow night.  It is a mere formality, but I will do it.  I might have guessed that she would try to smirch her own name, and the boys through her, if she had the chance.  She will defeat me yet, unless I am careful.  Oh, ye gods! why did I marry a fool who does not even know her own interests?  If I had life over again I would marry a Becky Sharp, any she-devil incarnate, if only she had brains.  One cannot circumvent