Lady Newhaven’s thoughts travelled back, in spite of herself, to her marriage with Lord Newhaven, and the humble, boundless admiration which she had accepted as a matter of course, which had been extinguished so entirely, so inexplicably, soon after marriage, which had been succeeded by still more inexplicable paroxysms of bitterness and contempt.  Other men, Lady Newhaven reflected, respected and loved their wives even after they lost their complexions, and—­she had kept hers.  Why had he been different from others?  It was impossible to account for men and their ways.  And how he had sneered at her when she talked gravely to him, especially on religious subjects.  Decidedly, Edward had been very difficult, until he settled down into the sarcastic indifference that had marked all his intercourse with her after the first year.

“Hugh will never be like that,” she said to herself, “and he will never laugh at me for being religious.  He understands me as Edward never did.  And I will be married in a pale shade of violet velvet trimmed with ermine, as it will be a winter wedding.  And my bouquet shall be of Neapolitan violets, to match my name.”

“May I come in?” said Rachel’s voice.

“Do,” said Lady Newhaven, but without enthusiasm.

She no longer needed Rachel.  The crisis during which she had clung to her was past.  What shipwrecked seaman casts a second thought after his rescue to the log which supported him upon a mountainous sea?  Rachel interrupted pleasant thoughts.  Lady Newhaven observed that her friend’s face had grown unbecomingly thin, and that what little color there was in it was faded.  “She is the same age as I am, but she looks much older,” said Lady Newhaven to herself, adding, aloud: 

“Dear Rachel!”

“Every one has gone,” said Rachel, “and I have had a telegram from Lady Trentham.  She has reached Paris, and will be here to-morrow afternoon.”

“Dearest mamma!” said Lady Newhaven.

“So now,” said Rachel, sitting down near the sofa with a set countenance, “I shall feel quite happy about leaving you.”

“Must you go?”

“I must.  I have arranged to leave by the seven-thirty to-morrow morning.  I think it will be better if we say good-bye over night.”

“I shall miss you dreadfully.”  Lady Newhaven perceived suddenly, and with resentment, that Rachel was anxious to go.

“I do not think you will miss me.”

“I don’t know why you say that.  You have been so dear and sympathetic.  You understand me much better than mamma.  And then mamma was always so fond of Edward.  She cried for joy when I was engaged to him.  She said her only fear was that I should not appreciate him.  She never could see that he was in fault.  I must say he was kind to her.  I do wish I was not obliged to have her now.  I know she will do nothing but talk of him.  Now I come to think of it, do stay, Rachel.”

“There is a reason why I can’t stay, and why you won’t wish me to stay when I tell it you.”